Is That The Shirt You're Wearing

by Kristen Brakeman

  The next day I formulated a plan to cash out and move to the lake. I figured we could get by on less here and maybe my husband and I could get jobs as bartenders or caddies if we really needed to. Yes. It would all work out perfectly.

  But right as I was about to pitch my plan, the kids slapped me back into reality.

  “We’re bored of the lake. How many more weeks are we going to be here?”

  Though tempted, I did not strangle them.

  I knew the “b” word was coming. We took a fancy vacation to Hawaii a few years earlier. The kids understood that it was a once-in-a-lifetime sort of trip and they loved every minute of it

  . . . for about four days. On the fifth day they couldn’t get off the couch. It seemed that they were exhausted from vacationing and preferred to watch Hannah Montana instead of snorkeling with sea turtles. It was at that moment that I understood how some parents could actually murder their children.

  So, I wasn’t that surprised that they had grown bored of the lake. I suppose my fantasy of us staying there forever, happily cut off from the stresses of reality, was just that, a fantasy. After all, my kids needed more than tall trees and a beautiful lake. They wouldn’t be satisfied joining us in our bartender and caddie jobs. I wanted more for them too. How could I expect them to reach for the stars when they couldn’t even see past all the damn tall trees, and they’re too scared to leave the house because of all the damn deer in the front yard?

  Besides, life back home was calling. On our last night in the cabin, new vacation neighbors arrived and with them came free-flowing internet. Emails from upcoming jobs and social invitations poured in. I even caught my husband browsing the dog-boarding website, searching for photos of our loveable mutt. “I think I see Buddy’s leg! Do you think he’s standing there because he’s waiting for us?”

  It was time to go home.

  On the long drive back, I entertained myself by loading in our vacation pictures to my laptop computer. Among the dozens of nature shots that we’ll never look at again stood out one gem. It was a shot I had taken of Samantha as she was granted the privilege of steering the rental boat out on the wide-open empty lake. In the picture my daughter had the biggest smile I have ever seen. It was one of those “I can’t believe my good fortune” sort of smiles. She looked happier than she’s ever been.

  I realized as I looked at that wonderful picture that I had actually gotten my wish. I did manage to freeze time. Because that one picture captured the joy I felt with my family out on that lake, a lake that was now teeming with beautiful memories.

  7 days before school (and work) starts

  The 10-hour drive home felt a lot longer than it did on the way up when we were fueled by anticipation. By the six-hour mark the kids started fighting over the crossword and activity books that they mocked on the way up. If only I had had the forethought to drug them with Benadryl after breakfast.

  Upon our return, Mario eyed us with disdain. “I knew vou’d vee back. Oh, and I crapped somewhere. It’s up to voo people to find it.”

  Buddy, on the other hand, was thrilled. It took him hours to calm down. But then, when we sunk into our usual positions on the couch, he looked sort of disappointed. “You people don’t play with me like my dog friends do. I miss my dog friends. I especially miss smelling their anal glands.”

  Soon after arriving home, Samantha loaded the photos from her camera on to our computer. In this batch there was a particularly horrifying photo of me, jumping in the lake . . . predominantly featuring my backside . . . in a bathing suit . . . in motion . . . in harsh sunlight. Let’s just say it was one of those “Is that really what I look like?” kind of photos. I instantly hit the delete button. Normally I’m not that vain. Ah, who am I kidding, I’m always that vain. But rarely has a photo been so bad that I’ve actually deleted it.

  That photo was a real eye opener. My legs looked like they belonged to an 80-year old woman. Actually, they looked exactly like my mother’s legs, who happens to be an 83-year-old woman.

  I have to start exercising. Tomorrow.

  Oh, wait, Samantha has her wisdom teeth surgery in the morning, so I’ll start the day after. But I need to get my car serviced after I drop Chloe at the high school to register and then get my car back so I can drop her off at golf team practice.

  I’ll have to start the day after that. But really, I have to start.

  Take Me Out of This Wretched Softball Game

  Whenever people say, “There are two kinds of people in the world,” I always cringe. It’s such a cliché. Yet recently, when a couple women on my husband’s softball team canceled at the last minute and I was drafted to fill in, I changed my view. Because there are two kinds of people in the world - jocks and non-jocks - and I am definitely one of the latter.

  Always the “last pick” as a kid, the idea of once again playing a team sport stirred painful memories. Now as an adult I had even less skills to bring to the field, and what’s worse, I had no softball costume.

  But my husband said some nonsense about having the right men to women ratio and having to forfeit the game otherwise, and blah, blah, blah, cry me a river. I reminded him of my lack of talent, but it was no use. The only qualifications required were double X chromosomes and a beating heart. Unfortunately I had both.

  “Don’t worry. It’s a bunch of old people, having fun,” my husband insisted. “I promise I won’t put you in any position where you might be embarrassed . . . and it’s a uniform, not a costume.”

  I nervously approached the dugout. My teammates offered a friendly welcome while eyeing my Olive Oyl figure with concern. Clearly there would be no power behind my swing, assuming I could even lift a bat.

  The opposing team’s players were covered head-to-toe in scary tattoos and sported intimidating scowls. I questioned my husband. “Game face,” was his reply. Great.

  Last up at bat, I trembled at the plate. The largest, most tattooed man on their team stood on the mound.

  The ball came and I swung hard. Surprisingly, I made contact. I sprinted for first and was safe. The crowd went wild. Okay, not really. But my teammates seemed pleased and my husband looked genuinely shocked.

  Then someone on our team must have gotten out because I was told I needed to leave the field. As I headed back to our dugout my teammates rushed toward me, arms raised in the air as if poised for attack. I lifted my own arms instinctively to protect myself, but then realized, oh, they want to high five. I awkwardly reciprocated.

  “Did you see that? I got a hit!” I boasted to my husband. “Yes, it was actually a fielder’s choice, but sure, great job!” I didn’t care what fancy term he called it; it felt good.

  Maybe I wasn’t that bad at sports after all? Maybe if I had just tried a little harder as a child I could have been a jock? I finally started to relax.

  “Okay, so on the next one,” my husband continued, “if you get on base I want you to let Marian pinch-run for you.”

  “Huh, why? I know how to run. Why can’t I run?”

  “Well, it’s a tight game and Marian runs a little faster.” he replied.

  I looked over at Marian, who might have been ten years younger, but was easily 40 pounds heavier. “Really? She doesn’t look faster. Are you sure she’s faster?”

  “Oh trust me, she’s faster. Though not as fast as she was before she started her cancer treatments,” he added.

  “I’m slower than a woman with cancer? Am I that slow?” He didn’t answer. The game continued. People hit, people ran. No one smiled or laughed. I got on base with a walk. Marian took over. The tattooed guys scored. The umpire and I repeatedly checked the time.

  Though ultimately we lost, my teammates thanked me for a “Great job.” Fibbers all.

  My husband insisted that they were being sincere, and reminded me that I saved them from a certain forfeit. “The fact that you actually got on base was a bonus,” he added.

  Then, back in the car I suddenly fought back tears. Why? Good Lord, why – over
a dumb softball game? Perhaps it was a tension release, from spending ninety minutes on edge, worried I’d be discovered as an imposter in their midst.

  Or maybe it was because I didn’t expect these people to take the game so flipping seriously. After all, these were middle- age men and women playing high arc, level “C” coed softball. Clearly not a one of them had a shot at the major leagues.

  I thought that since these players were old and “playing for fun” that it would be more relaxed than the horrible games of my youth. I thought there’d be laughter or goofing around. I expected people to actually look like they were having fun. Otherwise, why play?

  “Because playing hard, and competing to win is what makes it fun,” my husband explained.

  I stared at him blankly, as if he were speaking another language.

  There are two kinds of people in the world.

  5 days

  My husband has six months to live.

  That’s when his life insurance policy runs out. After that we can’t get him a new policy because he had prostate cancer - well, at least not a policy we can afford anyway. So, as I handed him a deep-fried bacon-and-donut sandwich for lunch, I insisted that we discuss our options. But he didn’t want to talk about it. He says it stresses him out and he can actually feel pain in his heart just by hearing the term, life insurance. So now I’m careful to only say it three or four times an hour.

  I’m worried about him though. I’m hoping a new hobby will take his mind off of things. So I bought him an ATV and also I signed him up for flying lessons. They were having this great going-out-of-business sale and I got a really good price on their Student Teacher-training package.

  I’m hoping one of these new hobbies will help us both feel better about the situation soon. He’s sure lucky to have someone like me watching out for him.

  Lunch With Two Joans

  When she was ten, my mother met a girl who shared her first name. They became best friends and stayed so for the next 73 years. Together they shared schoolyard memories, weddings, and family get-togethers.

  But, in the two years since my father passed away, my mom had not been able to see her best friend, Joan, because they live an hour apart and neither could drive on the freeways. Though unfortunate for them, countless lives have likely been saved by their motoring absence.

  My brothers and sisters and I felt badly about the situation especially because this was when my mom needed her friend the most, in the lonely time that followed the loss of her husband of 60 years. So my brother and I decided we would reunite them through email.

  But as much as we tried to simplify the process, our Joan could not, or rather would not, embrace the use of a computer. At each tutorial she would play along and pretend to listen to us, while refusing to let anything sink in. Though my mom would nod or respond occasionally with an “Uh-huh,” I knew she was secretly worrying if we’d finish the tedious exercise before the start of her precious Dr. Oz. Frankly, we could have gotten more genuine cooperation from my cat.

  Admitting defeat I finally suggested, “Why don’t we go meet Joan for lunch?”

  My mother was thrilled with the idea. Once the wheels were set in motion, the weeks that followed likely mirrored the negotiations for the Paris Peace Accord with the two Joans alternately rejecting every proposed date because of either a doctor or hair appointment or an important tennis match on TV.

  Finally on the road to Joan’s, my mother looked happier than I could remember. She recalled that the last time she had seen Joan she was still living in her large house at the beach. Only recently had Joan’s children put the family home on the market after they realized that her stay at the assisted living facility had to be permanent.

  While I drove, my mother reminisced about their early friendship. She and Joan lived on the same street, and perhaps because she was an only child and Joan had only a much older brother; they quickly became inseparable, spending nearly every night at one another’s house. Though they ended up at different high schools, they always remained best friends.

  As I listened, I became filled with a sense of self- satisfaction for what a wonderful daughter I was to be bringing such joy to my mother. I also looked forward to lording the day’s outing over the heads of my brothers and sisters and knew that I could cash in on the experience by making one of them into taking mom for her license renewal test at the DMV next month.

  We pulled up and parked, arriving extra early because “all the handicapped spaces will fill up,” and found our way to the lobby of Joan’s new home. A worker in the office immediately called up to announce our arrival. This was a high-rent facility.

  As we made our way down the hall to Joan’s room, I fantasized a bit about their pending reunion. I imagined, oddly in slow motion, their warm embrace and then the hours of happy reminiscing that would surely follow.

  In hindsight, I regret that the warm fuzzy feeling of anticipation could not have lasted longer because their reunion, it turned out, was not the Hallmark commercial I had imagined. The door opened and my mom’s friend Joan cheerfully welcomed us. Awkward hugs ensued, as each Joan had to return to her cane or walker quickly for fear of collapsing to the floor. The other Joan appeared much older than she did in my memory, likely an image held from my wedding long ago and clouded by a

  lens of champagne.

  After a quick tour of Joan’s living area, the ladies decided to chat for a bit. I sat lamely, feeling like a chaperone of teens on a date or maybe like a chauffeur who doesn’t know enough to stay in the car. I worried that my presence might add a formality to their visit or inhibit them somehow.

  “I thought you would have preferred a room with a view of the pool,” my mother said. “And where are your shoes? Don’t you have something for your feet?” she demanded of her best friend Joan in a tone once reserved for a misbehaving child. Clearly my concerns were unfounded.

  “My feet swell so I take my shoes off when I’m home. It’s my home and if I don’t want to wear shoes, I’m not going to wear shoes,” Joan barked back.

  Okay. This was going to be fun.

  We sat for a bit more and talked about what life was like at the retirement community; the socializing, the exercise classes, and the variety of dining choices.

  My mom had an endless set of questions, seemingly fascinated by how the day-to-day aspects of life were handled.

  Joan mentioned that her grandson had brought his dog for a visit recently and my mother was horrified. “Why did he bring the dog? I’m shocked that they would let pets in a place like this!”

  “I like seeing the dog. Bobby brings the dog because I like dogs,” Joan explained matter-of-factly.

  “Well it just seems unsanitary somehow,” my mother insisted.

  After a bit of catching up about the kids and the grandkids and what they were, or in some cases, were not doing with their lives, it was time to go downstairs to the dining room. My mother turned to her longtime friend and bluntly asked, “Are you going to put something on your feet now?”

  “Yes, I’m going to put shoes on my feet,” Joan replied sternly.

  As we entered the elevator, a nosy type stuck her head out the door to check out Joan’s visitors. I prayed that my mother didn’t catch a glimpse of her cat standing in the doorway, for fear of another discussion about unsanitary house pets.

  As we arrived in the dining room, many things struck me: first the hospital-like bland décor, then the amazing ratio of women to men, and last an irrepressible giddiness at suddenly feeling young again.

  We couldn’t sit at Joan’s “regular” table since it wouldn’t accommodate a party our size. Maybe I should have stayed in the car? Clearly this disturbed Joan because throughout the meal she looked longingly at her table, annoyed that others had taken advantage of her absence and had swooped in to steal her special spot.

  I inquired about the man to our left, a frail-looking gentleman in a wheelchair who, though hooked up to tubes and heavily bandaged, had what looked lik
e a harem of women flirting with him as he dined. “Oh, him? He used to be the Mayor,” Joan boasted. Proof that women are attracted to powerful men, even if they’re barely alive.

  The food came. Joan reached for the salt shaker and my mom lobbed another one. “You’re not still using salt are you? Don’t you have high blood pressure?”

  “What did you say?”

  “The salt! I’m talking about the salt!” my Joan yelled. “Hasn’t your doctor told you to stop using it? Why, I haven’t used salt in two decades . . . and you keep asking me ‘What?’ all the time. Maybe you should get a hearing aid?”

  If either of them were more mobile, I would have feared that they were about to throw down right there in the cafeteria with fists flying and fingers grabbing at the remaining strands of one another’s hair. But instead, they simply moved on to the next topic, unaware that their friendship seemed like anything but.

  My mother then complained about the abnormally large size of her sandwich that shared the plate with potato chips and a pickle. “If I had to eat a sandwich this big every day I’d gain 20 pounds.”

  “You could have just ordered a half like I did,” Joan observed coolly.

  After a tour of the grounds and the swimming pool, about which my mother commented, “It’s much smaller than you’d think it would be for a place this size,” we walked Joan back to her room. I was prepared to say goodbye, but apparently the two Joans weren’t done with their festive visit.

  The Joans decided they wanted to watch a DVD that my

  brother made; a compilation of black-and-white shots of our families frolicking at the beach, wonderfully adorned in 1960’s swimsuits, hairstyles and glasses. I reached for the DVD player as Joan reprimanded me, “Don’t change any of my settings. You better not mess up my TV!” Apparently, my career spent working on television shows did not qualify me to operate her all-in-one entertainment system.