by Jane Porter
It makes sense that Eva worries about the future, especially with Mom sick and Dad caring for her. But I don’t think this is just about me. It’s about Eva, too. She’s trying to see what would happen to her.
If I got sick, who would take care of her? If I died, where would she go? Questions she’s smart enough, perceptive enough, to ask. Questions that must worry her when she lies in her bed in the dark.
But I don’t want Eva worrying, as I know what it’s like to lie sleepless in the dark, the mind racing, thinking, imagining.
I worry that if something happens to me or my company, we could lose our house.
I worry that maybe I am too different from other moms and that my way of thinking, doing things, will harm rather than help Eva.
I worry that if I couldn’t care for Eva because of illness or death, she’d be completely uprooted—and yes, she could have a good life with Shey (her backup guardian), but Shey isn’t me.
Maybe everyone worries about these things—death, illness, disaster—but when you’re single, you can’t complain that all the pressure and responsibilities fall on you. Of course they fall on you. That’s what I wanted. To be in charge. To have control.
The funny thing is, I don’t have that much control. I never did. I just didn’t know it back then.
It’s nearly eleven and I’m just about to fall asleep when the phone rings. My first thought is, Luke.
My second thought is, Don’t let it be about Mom.
It’s Tiana, actually, and she’s just returned home from an industry awards dinner and she’s in a chatty mood.
“Have you read Nora Ephron’s latest, I Feel Bad About My Neck?” she asks, not even bothering to check and see if maybe she woke me up.
“No,” I mumble, flopping back into bed.
“It’s brilliant,” she continues blithely, “and you’ve got to read it today.”
“Tits, it’s after eleven,” I answer grumpily, thinking that it’s fine for Tiana to suggest I go buy something I have to read today when I’m forced to read Eva’s How to Be Popular in secret every afternoon just so I can stay a chapter or two ahead of her. “Even Barnes and Noble is closed now. And my neck is fine. My neck looks great.”
“That’s because we’re still in our mid-thirties. The turkey neck comes in the mid-forties.” She pauses, takes a thoughtful breath. “Apparently forty-three is the magic age.”
“Thanks.”
Tits pauses again. “You okay?”
“I’m good. Just sleepy.” It’s eleven, Tiana. E-l-e-v-e-n.
“So what have you been reading lately?”
Tiana is the bookworm. All she ever wants for her birthday or Christmas is a gift card for more books. Rubbing my eyes, I try to clear my head. What is the last book I’ve read? “I’ve been reading about how to get popular.”
Tiana snickers. “You want to be popular?”
“Shut up.”
“You, the one voted most likely to burn down the school?” She laughs harder, before stifling her fit of giggles. “Okay, seriously, the point of me mentioning Nora’s book is the chapter on parenting. Even though I don’t have kids, I thought it really nailed the whole parenting craziness going on in the world, because even here in La-La Land, parents have gone crazy. Parenting here is a profession. A calling. You wouldn’t believe the articles in newspapers and magazines this year looking at this whole phenomenon of alpha moms and helicopter parents.”
“What’s an alpha mom?”
“An overachiever mom, a mom who takes charge of everything, including the kids’ world, school, teachers, everything.”
I think of Taylor Young. Alpha mom. “Ephron’s book sounds good. I’ll look for it.” I yawn again. “So are you still coming this weekend?”
“You better believe it.”
The next morning, Robert chuckles when I tell him I’ve got to spend my lunch hour at Points Elementary photocopying the school newsletter. “Now that’s a wise use of your time and talent,” he taunts me as I head out the door.
“It’s not my choice. It’s part of my volunteer job,” I answer, grabbing my keys and wallet.
Chris glances up from his computer screen. “You know a man would never do that.”
“I know.” I flash a smile and wave good-bye.
Mrs. Dunlop, the school secretary, greets me as I walk into the school office. “Let me show you the way,” she says, rising from behind her desk. As she leads me to the copy room, she whispers, “We saw Eva’s hair. I know it was for a modeling shoot, but it’s short, isn’t it?”
I plaster a smile. “It was a surprise.”
“You didn’t know ahead of time?”
“No.”
“It’s just that she had such beautiful hair.”
I just nod. What else can I say?
Another mom is already in the copy room, pushing buttons, keeping the massive copier running. When she looks up, I’m delighted that it’s Kathleen, the woman from the cotton candy booth.
“You,” Kathleen says with a smile of welcome.
“Yep. You’re stuck with me again.”
Mrs. Dunlop leaves us, and Kathleen explains the system. “We’re copying four hundred and eighty of everything. I’ve already done the green cover sheets and the orange Halloween letter. All that’s left is the lavender page, which is the library, chess club, and soup can info, and the cherry-colored page, which has the play info. Then we start laying it out all, stapling it together, and start counting them out for each class.”
I survey the enormous stacks of paper towering everywhere. “We’re to do that all in an hour?”
“Whatever we don’t finish gets passed on to the next set of mothers.”
It’s tedious but easy work, and Kathleen and I talk as we finish copying and then start collating and stapling.
Kathleen lines up the next stack of handouts. “Thank you for coming in. This is a horrible job to do on your own.”
“You volunteer a lot, then?” I ask.
“As much as I can. It helps pass the time.”
“You have a son, right?”
She nods. “Our only one. It took us four years to make Michael, so when I discovered I was finally pregnant, I really wanted to stay home with him. And I have.”
“What did you do?”
“Hard to believe now, but I was actually a vice president with a big accounting firm.”
I pause and flex my fingers, which are getting numb from stapling so much. “Why is that so hard to believe?”
Kathleen shrugs tiredly and laughs. “Now the only thing I count is Scholastic book orders.”
We start in on the next pile of copies. “Do you ever regret staying home?”
She shrugs. “I think there are always regrets, no matter what we do. But after seven and a half years of being home, I’m comfortable with being a full-time mom. Not that I don’t sometimes envy the moms that have managed to keep their career. Working moms have it better.”
“You think?”
“Working moms get recognition and perks that stay-at-home moms don’t. Paychecks. Promotions. Expense accounts. Travel opportunities. Job reviews. All of those things validate the professional in the workforce. But for a mom who stays at home with her kids, who recognizes her? What are the rewards?”
“But your husband appreciates you, right?”
Kathleen’s expression turns wry. “He’s a man. You know what I mean?”
I like Kathleen. She, like many of the moms at Points Elementary, has the obligatory rock on her ring finger and shimmery foiled hair. I don’t know what she drives, but I imagine it’s a spotless luxury model, and these are the perks the stay-at-home mom gets: shiny hair, white teeth, big house, nice clothes, great skin, good body, new car.
It’s a trade-off, of course. Working moms are harried, their cars frequently dirty, their voices a tad shrill, their skin a little more lined, but they do get paychecks and bonuses and travel perks. They get to escape the domestic mundane for goal-settin
g meetings and sales calls and consultations, whatever they might be.
One life isn’t better than the other. They’re just different. Each woman must decide what’s right for her in life.
I couldn’t not work. I had a taste of being trapped at home when I was on maternity leave after having Eva. After just two weeks, I started to go crazy. I had too much time on my hands. Too many hours in the day to fill. I hate watching TV. I didn’t want to look at another magazine. And I missed thinking about something other than my baby, my leaking breasts, and my wild mood swings.
At work I suit up, pull back my hair, and I’m a brain, not just a body.
At work I have ideas that are good, valuable, influential.
At work you have to respect me.
For the stay-at-home moms, where is the respect? How many men really respect their wives? How many men understand the sacrifices their wives are making to keep the house clean, and raise the kids well, and make sure dinner’s always on the table, warm and waiting?
A half hour later, we’ve finished stapling and counting the copies for each class, and Kathleen and I grab our coats and keys and head out.
“You do this every week?” I ask as I button my coat. Clouds have gathered overhead, and the sky is dark, threatening rain.
“I’m here almost every day.” She grimaces. “Gives me something to do.”
“You’d never consider working part-time?” I ask, bundling my arms across my chest. “It sounds like it could be good for you.”
“It would”—she sighs—“but Michael needs me.”
We part just as it begins to rain. It’s a cold rain, too. Winter is on the way.
Reaching the house, I spot a huge, exotic floral arrangement at the door. After parking, I head to the front step and pick up the enormous glass vase teeming with flowers—it’s heavy—and smell the opulent perfume of plumeria and tuberose.
I carry the deep purple vase into the house to open the card tied to the front of it.
After flicking on the kitchen lights, I open the envelope. The card looks like Albrecht Dürer’s work, and it’s a woodblock print of a huge brown chicken.
I open the card and read, “Marta, scared yet? Luke Flynn.”
My lips twitch. Extravagant flowers. An artsy linen card featuring a big brown chicken. And a taunting one-liner.
Interesting. Luke must like playing with fire.
Chapter Eighteen
I return to the studio without the card or flowers. Since it’s Friday and the team works only a half day on Fridays, Allie and Chris have already left, and Robert is just shutting off his computer and cleaning off his desk.
“It’s going to be a wet weekend,” he says as I enter the studio, fat raindrops pinging against the studio’s glass door.
I drop into my chair at my desk, still thinking about Luke and his card. “It’s cold, too,” I answer, thinking that I very much like the sexy tension that sizzles and crackles between Luke and me.
I like that Luke’s bigger than me.
I like that he’s not scared of me.
I like that my motorcycle doesn’t have him running in the opposite direction.
I think I like him very much.
Robert grabs his leather satchel, shoves his laptop and paperwork into it, and, after throwing me a kiss, exits.
As leaves blow into the studio, I reach for the phone and the scrap of paper with Luke’s number and give him a call.
He answers on the third ring. “Luke Flynn.”
His voice sounds distant, and he seems distracted. “Luke, it’s Marta.”
“Marta, how are you?” The distance and detachment are gone. He sounds amused now.
The fact that I amuse him just makes me want him more. “Thank you for the flowers. Very thoughtful of you.”
I can feel his smile across the line. “That’s what I am. A very thoughtful man.”
That fizzy rush returns, and I find it hard to breathe. “You like chicken, then,” I say, my heart hammering so hard that I’m grateful my voice doesn’t come out a squeak.
“Are you inviting me to dinner?”
The husky sexiness in his voice has me running mental circles. Go-go-go, and I don’t even know where I’m going. The headless chicken racing around the poultry yard.
“I’m sure you already have plans for a Friday night,” I answer, and this time there is a faint catch in my voice, my crazy rush of adrenaline more than I can handle.
“I don’t. What time should I be there?”
I laugh and nervously tuck hair behind my ear. “You’re not serious.”
“I like chicken, Marta.” His voice has dropped, and it practically caresses me, flooding me with yet another rush of desire. Hope.
Luke Flynn is making it very difficult for me to remember why I chose a life of celibacy.
“But I’m serving pizza or pasta, something easy like takeout.”
“Even better. I’ll bring a bottle of red.”
“Luke.”
“Yes, my chicken?”
I’m blushing furiously even as I cough. “That’s horrible. Don’t say that again.”
“Would it sound better in French?”
“No. But if you want to come for dinner, be prepared for a boring girls night. Tonight it’s just Eva and me hanging out, probably watching one of her teen angst movies.”
“Can’t wait.”
“Sevenish?”
“Sevenish it is.”
Hanging up, I go weak all over, flabbergasted at my ballsy move. Not only do I call Luke, but now he’s coming for dinner.
To say Eva is excited about us having a male guest for dinner is like saying someone’s anxious to get off the sinking Titanic. Once I told her the news, she hopped around the house, asking questions and then making rapid-fire decisions on her own.
What are we going to eat? What will you make? How about your lasagna? That’s always good. Okay, lasagna.
If we’re going to make lasagna, we have to go to the store right now. Need to buy cheese and all the other stuff. What stuff do we need? I’ll start a list. Mom, tell me what we need.
And what will we have for dessert? What about that chocolate Kahlúa cake? Or the rum cake? Men like cake. And pie, too. I could make a cake or pie if you just show me how.
So what will you wear? I think it should be something pretty. Let’s go look at your closet now. Maybe the red dress? Yes, the red dress with high heels.
That’s when I put a stop to her plans. Lasagna will be fine. Cake is good. But no high heels and no red dresses. Yes, it’s Friday night, but this is my house, not a brothel.
We leave for the store. Eva wants to go to Whole Foods, but I don’t have time for such a megastore right now, so we hit the QFC close to our house, the one near the Chevron from the other fateful day.
I pick up the ingredients for lasagna and salad and garlic bread while Eva studies all the boxes of cake mix.
On our way home, she keeps tapping her foot. “How are we doing on time?” she demands, shifting restlessly on the bench seat.
“It’s not even four yet,” I tell her.
“Good.” She nods firmly. “We’ve got a lot to do. A lot.”
I glance at my daughter with her dark pixie cut and her gamine features, which will one day become more mature, and reach over to pat her knee. “I love you, Eva. Even if you make me crazy.”
She smiles back at me. “I love you, too, Mom. Even if you don’t know what you’re doing.”
At home, I get to work making my famous homemade meat sauce (okay, famous in my own home, but that still counts for something), and Eva runs around straightening up the house. She vacuums while I put the noodles on to boil, and then while I start assembling the layers she pulls out the cake box, the mixer, eggs, and oil.
Eva and I have fun making the cake together. She loves baking and is the most serious measurer I’ve encountered yet, bending low to gaze eye level at the water and oil, scraping the bowl diligently, timing the beati
ng to the exact second since it’s science.
As I watch her divide the cake batter between the two pans, I smile, amazed, awed, proud. This is my little girl. This is my Eva, who gave me such a scare and put me on bed rest. My Eva, who insisted on walking early, talking early, who was so determined to grow up fast.
“Stop looking at me,” she says gruffly, her cheeks darkening to a gorgeous red.
“I can’t help it. I love looking at you. You’re my girl.” And I mean it in that deep, bone-aching way where I can’t imagine myself without her, can’t imagine how I’d get through a day if anything ever happened to her.
Do other mothers ever torture themselves this way? Do all mothers love their children so much that the love brings you to your knees?
She shakes her head, but she’s smiling. “Do you still hate my hair?”
“I don’t hate your hair. I think it’s cute. It suits you. But do you hate your hair?”
She sets down the bowl, her fingers covered with chocolate cake mix, and licks one sticky finger. “No. I actually kind of like it. It’s different.” Her shoulders rise and fall. “I kind of like being different.”
My heart catches, a funny little trip, and even though I never cry, my eyes burn and sting. “You do?”
“Yeah. Like you always say, why be like everybody else?”
With the lasagna and cake baking, I go to my room to shower and change into something a little fresher, and there on my bed Eva’s laid out her favorite dress, the cherry red linen sheath with the halter neckline.
It’s a dress I’ve worn just once in New York for a summer party at Shey’s place, and Eva loved it so much that she talked about it for months after. She said I looked so beautiful, more beautiful than even Aunt Shey, and I looked not like a mom, but like a model from a magazine, and now it’s the dress she wants me to wear.
I touch the linen fabric, see how it curves at the waist and shapes the breasts, and I feel such a pang for my daughter who craves a glamorous mother. But I never wanted to be that Betty Crocker–Martha Stewart perfect woman, never wanted to be whipping up recipes in the kitchen in my 1940s frock and pearls and heels.
