He squints. Why not continue?
“I tote a Vera Bradley purse with matching change purse, cell phone case, and makeup bag—which, honestly, I’ve never liked, Jace, but the Vera rage burned a couple of years ago at church, and I convinced myself a quilted handbag with a Noah’s ark theme was not only a fine idea, but a potential witnessing tool, like a Jesus fish or a cross necklace.”
“It’s just a purse, hon.” Jace leans up on one elbow. “You sure you don’t want to shower first?”
“You know, I figured if I wore it steadily for three years, it would come to about ten cents a pop, and surely that’s not bad, is it?”
Jace shakes his head, throws back the covers. “No, Hezz, it isn’t.” Under his breath he mumbles, “That purse is the least of it.”
I wonder how long it’ll take before he sees the new deck furniture. I’m glad I remembered to hide those bags from T.J.Maxx.
The coffeemaker is burbling like the creek on the west side of our property, the one that soaked Will clear down to his skivvies after he played in it at least four afternoons a week once the warmth of spring overlaid the fields and the woods.
Every so often that stream floods, and I am frightened for my son. Good reasons for this abound. Will was a wandering, curious tot with a certain “Don’t you know I must be about my Father’s business?” air about him.
Six thirty in the morning, and the forty-five minutes before I must awaken my son stretch in front of me like a sun-warmed path to the beach. I’m never alone, it seems, even with just one living child (and I wanted ten, but those thoughts are definitely for another day, or maybe next year). I feel so confined, as if my skin has thickened, hardened like the dried-up skin of a past-due tangerine, and inside this shell I’m fighting to be free, to be young and full of hope that I’m made for something more.
More than motherhood?
Justifiably so, the women at my old church would never understand these thoughts. Any woman who wanted more than motherhood wanted too much. But something inside me claws with puckered lips and shiny-bright eyes, believing it will drag not just me but all those I love right along with it onto a new roller coaster with longer drops to go speeding down but greater vistas from which to view the world.
I don’t know how I know this, other than I’ve known it for years, known I was created to do something out of the norm; known that only one pregnancy out of five actually took because I wasn’t cut out to be the mother of many nations; I wasn’t destined to think that Elisabeth Elliott and her daughter have it all sewn up.
Gary and Mary Andrews fit into this somehow. See, right now I’m living in a puzzle, the box lid having just been taken off, and I stare down onto the pieces, some clear, some hidden, and they work together somehow, but I’m just looking at them, smelling the woody pulp, and wondering, all the while knowing it’s designed to do so, how in the world I’ll make it all fit together and look like something real. Even the box lid sports no picture to guide me.
But first, the turkey.
Sliding the small bird out of the refrigerator, I lay the chilled pan on my soapstone counter. Just had to install those soapstone tops after a particularly enlightening episode of Martha Stewart Living on HGTV. Oven, 375 degrees. Rack in the lower third. Good. Poor bird, forced to give up its life for us. We’ll eat every bit. After all, through no choice of its own, the creature sacrificed its life for our protein consumption, so how can I casually pitch it into the garbage without giving it some kind of meaning?
Thus the plethora of soups and casseroles that line the extra freezer in the basement; I long to give them away, but without a church home, who would I give them to?
Thus my weight problem.
But, honey, I can do more with a can of cream of mushroom soup than Paul McCartney ever could have hoped to do with two guitars, a bass, and drums. Although he did have Ringo to train. I have to allow for that.
I’d better vacuum a bit before we leave for school.
How do I live like this? The kitchen and family room alone spread out before me, larger than our first place down in Anneslie, a peasized second-floor apartment in an arts and crafts bungalow with a galley kitchen and a living room/dining room combo. But ah, the woodwork.
I insert the hose into the wall vacuum.
Less to vacuum there in Anneslie too.
Every year I think there must be more to life. And every year— despite a new car or a trip to a new land, new milestones and triumphs in my son’s life, or a redone deck, a pool, a spa, or an entertainment system— I take stock and think once again, I was made for more than this.
But I love my stuff.
The hose jumps to life and I scrape the head back and forth over the cream-colored carpet.
Of course there’s always church and God. And Jesus.
Something smells funny. Is the unit going up already?
Now Jesus, I get Him. I just wish I didn’t forget Him when I open my eyes each morning and the day descends.
But church? Well, we left ours a year ago and still haven’t found a place to settle. The praise songs had become so repetitive, the messages more of the same old “practical living advice” with a couple of Bible verses thrown in for good measure; and I was tired. Really, Jace and I were both just tired out. And there never seemed to be hope that a break was coming, that we wouldn’t spend the rest of our lives doing this “stuff.”
When Jesus said, “I will give you rest,” I tend to think He meant the whole gamut, not just spiritual.
I finish the family room and the area rugs in the entry hall.
Jace enters the kitchen and refills his coffee.
“Jace, do you ever wonder what it was like for Jesus when He woke up each morning? Did He dread opening His eyes? Did He think, Oh, Lord, all these people! People, people, people everywhere. How did it come to this? And why am I always the one who does the nice things? When was the last time anyone, especially one of these disciples, thought to do something nice for Me? I have a feeling He didn’t. He had no sin. He didn’t carry around this darklight in His chest.”
He pauses, coffeepot held midair. “Heather, are you okay?”
“Yeah. I just wonder about stuff like that sometimes.”
“I’m a little worried about you. You seem really stressed.”
“I’ll feel better once the school year’s done and this party is over.”
“That fund-raising gala really took it out of you.” He sets his mug down, walks over, and puts his arms around me. “I really love you, hon. You know that, right?”
I just burrow my face into his shoulder. I can’t look at him when he starts making loving proclamations. If his professions are an accurate indication of his emotions, Jace adores me. So if he backs them up with candles and flowers and that sweet smile, why can’t I believe him? With these sponge cake hips? This raggedy C-section scar? Come on, man! Where are your standards?
My hair is so greasy, and here I am snuggling into him. How can he stand it? “You know, Jace, with your looks, money, position, and exposure to the female kind in your practice, you could locate some remix of Martha Stewart with a little Gwyneth Paltrow thrown in for good measure. Some days I wonder why you don’t.”
“I don’t know what more I can do to prove to you how much I love you, Heather.”
He kissed me awake yesterday morning and whispered how much he loved me. When he got into the shower after I pretended to enjoy his lovemaking, I cried.
“What’s wrong with me, Jace? Why can’t I believe you? Why have I never believed you?”
“I don’t know, Hezzie.”
“It’s not you.”
“I know. I’ve always known that.”
“It’s got to be getting a little old.”
“I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t.” He pours me a cup of coffee, and we stand on the side porch as the sun rises on this final day of school, peering through a misty sky, lighting the world as though nobody has given it permission and it doesn’t want
to overstep its bounds.
I turn around and refold myself into his tallness, and his arms surround me. I do love him.
“We need to get away together, Hezz.”
“Yeah. Far away.”
See, we fritter away our lives making enough to provide ourselves with four-star accommodations when we crawl home each night, and when all that isn’t enough, when our bones are pitted and our muscles wasted, when our hearts are emptied out and imploded, we just want to get away from the reminders of our own foolishness.
My foolishness. Deep in my heart, I know this life on the hill over the lake is mine.
Jace never wanted any of this.
TWO
When Will went off to kindergarten, one mom did the Snoopy dance right at the end of the driveway as her last child climbed aboard the bus. There stood us first-time mothers crying our eyes to an angry, pulsating red, and Mary Jane, a veteran mom sending off her fifth and final, shuffled like Mr. Bojangles.
I understand now. In September my son will begin high school. And though I don’t want to wish his youth away, I’ll be dancing like Mary Jane did that day. School would be great if there weren’t other children around being so mean and snobby and all. Just like their parents.
Will shuffles in, sleepy eyes weighed down by what looks like a dirty-blond Pomeranian atop his head. He lays his backpack against the desk. “Morning, Mom.”
It’s his birthday. We don’t mention his birthday. After all, he says, he really had nothing to do with it, and if nobody is going to give me gifts as his mother, the woman who carried him for nine months, labored seventeen and a half hours, and went through major surgery to release him to the arms of the world, why should he get any? He simply showed up—invited, yes—but unable to accept or refuse. Fifteen years after the day he was born, I still can’t wrap my mind around this eccentric soul. Now my heart is another matter entirely, of course.
I run my fingers through his hair. “Good sleep? Need a haircut?”
“Yes and no. I’ll fix the eggs if you pour me a cup of coffee.” He smiles with Jace’s mouth and speaks with my father’s voice, only a tad higher. Dad loved his grandson who inherited his artistic side. Dad painted murals on my bedroom walls, changing them with my interests. Now a man who can paint fairies one year and butterfly brides the next automatically qualifies as someone abnormally special.
Will opens the refrigerator door and leans down. Because we decided he should repeat second grade, he’s three or four inches taller than most of the boys in his class, but probably weighs twenty pounds less. “Want cheese in your eggs?” He speaks with his newfound man-voice. And he smiles again, sending the love of my father right into the center of my heart.
“I wish you’d have known your grandfather better,” I say.
“Me too. I loved going over there to spend the night. It must be a bummer to have no parents living.”
“Yeah.” A big bummer.
And now I feel like going shopping again. I’m not stupid. I know my incessant buying is trying to fill holes that purchases were never meant to fill. But I just feel so much better afterwards. Jace can’t possibly understand. He’s got the luxury of having living parents to take for granted and a satisfying career that actually helps people.
* * *
Laney, another room helper, helps me get sodas together for the party.
“Heather, do you ever feel like running away?” She leans against the counter, pulling the cans out of the plastic rings. She’s pretty much the only room mother I really relate to. Unfortunately, I haven’t taken the time to get to know her this year. That fund-raising gala took more than my money, that’s for sure.
Laney’s gorgeous. Figure that out. “I want to run away five days out of seven. It’s those kids.” Her oldest, Nicola, from her husband, Cade’s, first marriage, is in Will’s class and looks like her real mother, who isn’t bad but is no Laney. The other four, who look like Laney, are under five and include a set of twins. And she’s pregnant again. “Is that horrible?”
“No, it’s understandable. We all feel that way sometimes.” I heft a bag of ice out of the freezer.
“What about you? Do you ever feel like that?”
“Sometimes I look at my Suburban and wish it would turn into a sporty import, top down, so I can drive her away with no planned destination, no seat filled by a warm body, no music on the radio, no familiar bends, or houses, or ponds, or service stations.” I lean my forearm on the cold bag. “Just drive and drive and drive. Why don’t you start on the vegetables?”
“Sure.” Laney reaches over to a head of cauliflower and begins to slice up florets for the fresh veggie tray that Carmen, the head room mother who terrorizes the rest of us, insisted we have even though we all know there isn’t an eighth grader alive who will voluntarily touch the stuff. “Where do you end up in your dream?”
“I don’t know. I never get that far, I guess.”
I lied. Somewhere at the other end of the journey awaits a spare white bedroom with a single bed, a student desk and chair, and a reading lamp with a pale yellow shade. On the other side of the bedroom door a Purpose sits waiting on a straight-back chair, gray felt fedora beside him on the mission-style occasional table, hands folded over the brown leather grip of a banker’s satchel. Occasionally he glances at his watch and wonders when I will wake up and emerge from inside.
This from St. Matthews Day School’s Volunteer of the Year!
But I want to drive away to that white shell of a room and sit on the side of the institutional twin bed with its beige bedspread, gazing out of the small window overlooking a vacant lot dusted with some gum wrappers, a soda bottle or two, and an old dish towel twisted and squashed like a braided donut left for a week in the box. I’d sit that way until I garnered the courage to open the door and talk to my Purpose sitting in his chair.
He’d squeeze aloft his hat, stand up, hold the hat in both hands, and clear his throat. “Good then, Mrs. Curridge. There’s still plenty of time left. Shall we?”
So I follow him out the door of the boardinghouse and onto a city bus. We ride for a long time, and I fall asleep to the cadence of the tar lines crossing the road. When I awaken, I find he’s carried me into a small, tidy abode with a galley kitchen and white walls. The cupboards only hold eight plates, bowls, glasses, and mugs. All white and simple with that Palmolive shine. Or wait, does Palmolive soften your hands while you do the dishes? I can never remember.
He shows me each of the two bedrooms, small bedrooms probably 10 x 12. Seven sets of clothing hang in each person’s closet, easy clothing, mix and match.
“This way, Mrs. Curridge.”
We walk through the living room to the sliding glass doors, and on the balcony sit Jace and Will in molded white plastic lawn chairs. Jace stands. “Welcome home. We decided to get rid of all the extras while you were gone.”
I say “Amen” to that.
* * *
I pour bagged ice over the sodas in the cooler.
“Laney, do you ever feel like you’re going crazy?”
“Only all the time.”
“But you’ve got more of an excuse.”
“Yeah, those kids.”
“But you look so gorgeous.”
She begins to place the florets on a segmented tray, haphazardly without a care for effect. I like it. “It’s genetics, Heather. I’m not going to age well, I can tell you that. Thin faces are fine midthirties. But with these cheekbones, I’m going to end up looking like that Madame puppet.”
I bark out a laugh. “For me it’s one minute you’re a smooth-skinned twelve-year-old; the next you look like somebody rolled you around in beer batter and deep-fried you to a puffy golden brown.” Thanks to the tanning bed in the exercise room in the basement. I had to have it after giving my sunlamp away to a man from church suffering from depression. “Brown fat is prettier than white fat, I always say. I’ve avoided the bathing suit department for years. I lie and say I don’t swim, that I’m
photosensitive.”
“I think you’re perfect. And sexy too.” She grabs the carton of grape tomatoes. “Hey, I think we’re pretty good for each other. We need to hang out more.”
“You said it.”
Me. Sexy. The girl must have standards as low as Jace’s!
She scratches her cheek and tilts her head to the side. “Do you have these kinds of conversations with everyone?”
“I try to limit myself to two a day.” I shake my head. “No, not usually. They just seem to be happening more and more. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Just wondering.” She reaches for a head of broccoli and pushes back a heavy, wavy chunk of burnished hair. “So how much of this stuff do you think will be eaten?”
“At least half, because Carmen will eat it herself just to prove she was right.”
Laney raises a single brow. “But she’ll be sneaky about it.”
“Exactly.”
We keep on chopping Carmen’s veggies.
I reach into the fridge for the red peppers. “I watched an episode of Oprah a few years ago about a woman who found herself allergic to practically everything. She ended up living in a tent in the middle of the forsaken desert, away from cleaning products, paper products, new clothes, varnished furniture, anything with chemicals in it.”
“I saw that too.” Laney picks up a cucumber.
“And I envied her! I kept thinking, Now wouldn’t I like to trade places with her for a couple of weeks. I haven’t read a good novel in fifteen years! Not since Will was born.”
“I read poetry.”
“Me too, Laney. All the bang in less than five minutes. Unless it’s epic, in which case, who cares? I just flip over to the short stuff.”
Plain Perfect & Quaker Summer 2 in 1 Page 27
