No Ordinary Life

by Suzanne Redfearn

  “That’s not why he’s here.”

  “It’s not? Really, Faye? Have you even thought about why he’s here? Eight months, nothing, then suddenly he appears out of nowhere, hat in hand, saying he wants back in your life. A coincidence? Are you really that naive?”

  “It is a coincidence. He doesn’t even know about Molly acting. He came here because he realized we left Yucaipa and he was worried about us.”

  “Yeah, right. And I’m Mary Poppins. Christ, Faye. You think Sean just realized you moved from Yucaipa? You moved here three months ago. I’d bet my right arm he’s here because he saw Molly on the Gap commercial.”

  “This has nothing to do with that.”

  “To hell it doesn’t. I don’t know what it is about that man, but he’s had you fooled from the moment you met him. He’s here for the same reason he married you. Opportunity.”

  “Go to hell!” I pivot and storm into the house, racing past Molly and Tom and into the bedroom.

  Emily sits on the bed reading a book.

  “Please,” I say, “go.”

  “You okay?” she asks as she stands.

  I manage an unconvincing nod, and she hesitates, unsure what to do.

  “It’s okay, baby. I just need a few minutes alone.”

  With a concerned look that warms my heart, she leaves, and I pull a pillow to my chest and bury my face in it.

  My mom’s wrong. She’s always been wrong about Sean. She doesn’t know him, never even gave him a chance. Yes, it fell apart, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t real. My breaths wobble with each intake of air as I try to hold in my emotions. Sean didn’t say a word about Molly being on television. He probably doesn’t even know.

  A tickle bristles my brain, and I try to push it away, but it refuses to budge. I don’t like to think about it. It was a long time ago. He would have married me anyway. He told me so. Shame blindsides me, and I pray there is not a heaven and that my dad is not looking down. He didn’t leave much, but he worked hard for the little he left, and I gave it away to the first man I fell for so he could buy his own rig.

  “Mom?” Emily says through the door.

  I take a deep breath, set the pillow aside, and straighten my expression. “Yeah, baby?”

  “Can I come back in?”

  “Sure, sweetie.”

  Tentatively she steps in and closes the door behind her. “You sure you’re okay?”

  Her concern nearly causes the floodgates to open. Things have been so awful between us. “I love you, baby. You know that, don’t you?”

  She shifts uncomfortably and nods.

  I pat the bed, and she shuffles over to take the spot beside me, sitting on her hands, her eyes on her lap.

  “You’re growing so fast,” I say, marveling that she’s nearly my height.

  She winces at the lame statement, barely stopping herself from rolling her eyes, and my heart hitches at how awkward things have become between us. A few months ago, I never would have said anything so stupid, and she wouldn’t have even considered being disrespectful.

  I brush her thick hair behind her shoulder. “Baby,” I say, “I need to tell you something, and I want you to tell me honestly how you feel about it.”

  She shrugs and looks at me through her long lashes, her green eyes the exact color of Sean’s, and I realize my mom is wrong because, no matter why Sean married me, nothing that gave me a daughter as beautiful as Emily could ever be considered a mistake. And I hope with all my heart that there is a heaven and that my dad is looking down because I know, if he could see Emily, he would be smiling.

  “What is it?” she asks.

  “Your dad is back.”

  Her face lights up, causing my heart to reverse course and clench in anger. “I’m not sure why he’s back,” I add with more than a little bitterness in my tone.

  She doesn’t notice. “He’s back. Where? Here? He’s here? Why didn’t he come see us? Can we go see him?”

  Her enthusiasm is like a red-hot poker to my brain.

  “He’s coming to see you tomorrow,” I manage.

  A huge smile fills her face. “I knew he’d come back. I just knew it. So is he going to move here? Will Grandma let him move in with us? I’m going to ask her.”

  She bounces up, and I catch her by the hand.

  “Baby, he’s back, but I don’t know if it’s for good.”

  Her head tilts.

  “We need to see how things go, take it one day at a time and not get too ahead of ourselves. Okay?”

  Her head shakes. “No. He’s back. Don’t you see? He needed to go off and make some money, and he did, and now he’s back.”

  “He what?”

  “That’s what he told me. He said he needed to stay on the road to make enough money so we could live better. And he must have made enough, and so now he’s back.”

  My jaw clenches. “When did he tell you that?”

  “Before he left.”

  Her eyes are so bright, her worship so complete, I know it cannot be diminished by the truth, so I simply nod and allow her to believe that her father is a hero, a brave warrior who left for noble reasons and who has now returned with the bounties of his victories after months of toiling for the sake of his family and home. The thought causes acid to rise in my throat, but I force myself to give a thin smile to her radiant one.

  Perhaps her rose-colored perspective is a blessing. We are a product of our parents, or at least we think we are, so perhaps thinking the best of Sean will allow her to think better of herself.

  “I haven’t told Molly and Tom,” I say.

  “I’ll tell them,” she says and skips away to deliver the joyous news.

  38

  I fidget. My palms sweat. I smooth my shirt then re-rumple it, mad at myself for preening over Sean’s visit. My emotions are so worn out that I’ve lost track of how I feel about his return. Am I angry, hurt? Should I yell, scream, throw something at him, hug him, offer him a piece of pie?

  He doesn’t deserve pie.

  So why do I want so badly to offer him a slice?

  Because he would like it. He would love it. His face would light up, and he would be so happy. Because for twelve years all I cared about was his happiness, and it’s hard to turn that off.

  He doesn’t deserve my pie. I will not give him pie.

  The kids are antsy with anticipation as well, each in their own way. Emily hasn’t stopped smiling since last night. Tom is nervous. Like me he’s unsure what to make of this reunion. Since he got the news, he’s barely said a word. It’s not mutism but rather too many thoughts and emotions swirling in his brain, making him too distracted to talk. Molly is like a kid waiting for Christmas, and it breaks my heart. She’s the youngest, and eight months is a long time when you’re only four. Even prior to her dad’s permanent departure, he wasn’t around most of her life. To her, a dad is almost a fictitious character, something you read about in storybooks or see in movies, an abstract, romantic notion like Santa Claus.

  When he knocks, I jump, though he’s right on time and we are expecting him.

  I smooth my shirt as Emily leaps from the couch and runs to the door.

  “Daddy!” She throws her arms around his waist and buries her face against his ribs.

  “Hey, M&M,” he croaks, his emotions barely held in check as he strokes her hair.

  With Emily still clinging to him, he steps inside. Tom and Molly stand five feet away, Tom looking at the ground, his hands in fists at his sides, Molly looking at Sean curiously, a stranger who has come to visit.

  “Hey, kids,” he says, holding open his left arm while still holding on to Emily with his right. “Remember your old man?”

  Tom nods, and Molly walks into his open arm.

  He holds both girls against him and looks up at me. “Hey, beautiful.”

  My cheeks flush though I don’t want them to.

  “What do you kids say to a beach day?”

  “I just need to get my swimsuit,” Emily say
s, breaking away and running into the bedroom.

  “Me too,” Molly says, leaping after her, suddenly caught up in the excitement.

  Tom follows, his head hung, his hands still balled at his sides, and I can’t figure out if he is angry or ashamed. I hope it’s the first but fear it’s the latter. What I’m certain of is that his voice is lost. Tom used to be fine talking to his dad, but it’s been eight months and things are not what they used to be. I need to keep reminding myself of that or else I’ll forget—this is not Yucaipa and we are no longer a family.

  “Hey,” Sean says, walking farther into the condo, his eyes running over me until they come to rest on my face. “Thanks for this. For letting me come.”

  I look away, unable to take the intensity of his stare.

  “Do you want a slice of pie?” I offer before my brain can stop my mouth.

  He sits at the table as I pull the pecan pie I baked last weekend from the fridge. I cut him a slice and walk toward the microwave to heat it then change direction. He will have to eat it cold.

  “Mmmm,” he says, his eyes closing with the first bite, making me regret not heating it so he could taste how really good it is when it’s warm. “God, you’re something.”

  “Something good or something bad?” I ask, the rhythm of our banter returning like an old nursery rhyme.

  His eyes open, those damn swirling green disks. “Something amazing,” he says.

  “We’re ready,” Emily announces, leading the bathing-suit-clad troupe from the bedroom.

  Sean scans the three of them with such satisfaction my heart swells, and I’m tempted to wrap my arms around his shoulders so we can admire them together—Emily, gorgeous; Tom, strapping; Molly, adorable—our three amazing kids, fit, healthy, and beautiful.

  “Hey, Bugabaloo, what happened to your arm?” Sean asks, concern on his face as he looks at the gauze wrapped around Molly’s forearm.

  “I got stitches,” she says proudly. “Five of them. I needed to go to the hospitawl, and it huwrt wreal bad, but the doctowr said I was wreal bwrave, and I got wlots of pwresents…”

  “We should get going,” I say, cutting her off before she discloses anything about her new career or the show. “Sean, can you help me with the towels?”

  “Is she okay?” he asks as he follows me toward the bathroom.

  I nod and part of me wants to tell him all about it, to tell him how terrified I was and to talk to him the way I would have if one of the kids had been hurt when we were still together. But yesterday, when Molly fell, I was alone, and the hurt of his abandonment returns. And I wonder if this is how it will be between us from now on, a roller coaster of emotions, forgetting then remembering, forgiving, but not really, because every time I’m reminded, pain like an electric shock will cripple me and I’ll be blindsided by my anger.

  I practically throw the towels at him then grab the sun lotion and storm from the bathroom.

  “Can we take the van?” he says. “All I have is my bike.”

  By bike, he means his Harley.

  “Ouwr van died,” Molly volunteers, still sad over the old car’s demise.

  Sean’s eyebrows rise in question then his eyes flick away. Shame. Either because he didn’t provide for us or because he’s relieved that he wasn’t around to have had to provide for us.

  “But we got a new car,” Emily says. “It’s awesome, a Nissan Pathfinder.”

  “And it’s yewllow.”

  “Wow, nice,” Sean says, and I see his mind puzzling over how we afforded it. “Well, then how about we take the awesome yellow Nissan Pathfinder to the beach?”

  * * *

  I drive, which is weird because Sean always drove when we traveled as a family. But we are no longer a family, and the Pathfinder is my car, so I climb into the driver’s seat and Sean climbs into the passenger seat beside me.

  Emily talks a mile a minute as we inch along in the heavy weekend traffic. It’s strange listening to her, and I realize her relationship with Sean is different than mine and hers. They share a special bond that we just don’t have. Sean laughs at her soccer jokes and cares about her goals and assists. He understands her competitive spirit and relishes her victories. When she talks about the kids at school and one girl in particular, Alicia, who made it her mission to make Emily miserable, Sean says, “Is she a big girl?”

  “You mean fat?” Emily asks.

  “Em,” I reprimand.

  “Yeah, is she fat?” Sean says.

  “Big as a cow,” Emily answers.

  “Sugar-free Life Savers,” Sean says. “Put them in a regular Life Savers bag and leave them where she can find them. She’ll eat the whole bag and be farting up a storm in minutes then have the runs for days.”

  “Sean,” I say, appalled but not really. Alicia was vicious, and my advice of just steer clear of her didn’t help at all.

  They continue talking, Emily the happiest I’ve seen her in months. There’s so much I didn’t know about her life, and I realize how distracted I’ve been. On and on she goes, without a single mention of Molly, the commercial, or The Foster Band.

  When she’s exhausted every story about her life, she turns to music, pulling out her iPhone to show Sean her playlist.

  “Wow, an iPhone, nice,” he says, his voice tight, revealing his wounded pride that we’re doing so well without him.

  “Mom got one too,” Molly says.

  “The nine key on my old phone stopped working altogether,” I say in defense of the purchase.

  “New phones, a new car, looks like you’re doing pretty good without the old man,” he says, then adds, “Change lanes, the merge up ahead makes the right lanes congested.”

  I do as he says, and we move ahead of the cars on the right, inching forward at a pace only slightly faster than walking. And as we putt along, I wonder if money would have changed things, given us a better chance of making it.

  “Watch the car on the left. The asshole is texting,” Sean says.

  I watch the car on my left. Asshole. The word rubs. My dad never swore, and my mom rarely did. Since Sean’s been gone, the words “shit,” “damn,” “fuck,” and “asshole” have been absent from our lives.

  “Move over one more lane and get ahead of that fucking Volvo.”

  I race in front of the Volvo, my hands gripping the wheel so tight that my knuckles are white.

  “Christ, Faye, are you trying to get us killed? Honk at that asshole.”

  I pull to the shoulder, storm from the car, yank open the passenger door, and hold out the keys. “You drive.”

  Happily he obliges.

  And as I climb into the passenger seat, I know the answer. Money would have changed things if it came from him, but if it came from me, it wouldn’t have worked. Sean can’t be in the passenger seat. Our life was a struggle, but Sean took pride in his role of taking care of us, and in turn, I took care of him. There was something beautiful in it. Like a trapeze act, a sacred trust existed—part optimistic naivety, part reckless youth, part courageous faith. We were in it together and believed that somehow, despite the odds and the dangers of flying without a net, our love would be enough to see us through.

  But then he faltered, stopped believing and let go, and now he’s asking me to trust him again, and I’m not sure I can. No longer naive and too scared to be reckless, I’ve lost my courage and possibly my faith.

  39

  I watch them playing in the water. Tom is laughing, his mutism mercifully dissolved the moment his toes hit the sand, the pure joy of being at the beach trouncing his anxiety.

  Emily hangs from Sean’s shoulders, futilely trying to dunk him. He swings her off, sending her flying into the waves. They’ve been in the water for hours, Sean teaching Emily and Tom to bodysurf while I build sand castles on the beach with Molly.

  Molly feels left out, but she doesn’t know how to swim and can’t get her stitches wet, so the poor thing is beach-bound with me.

  Sean looks good, better than when he show
ed up beleaguered two weeks ago. Today he is well rested, his eyes bright. He turned thirty-six while he was gone, and like most rugged men, age suits him, his boyish charm fermented into a tough manliness. Tall and broad-shouldered, his skin is golden brown with tattoos that cover his forearms and part of his chest.

  I notice he has some new etchings—a tribal circle on his back and a serpent coiling over his heart. I bristle with the thought of how expensive tattoos are and the memory of how I struggled to make ends meet after he left.

  I shake off the irritation, determined to enjoy the moment—the rare, blessed reprieve from total responsibility, the unencumbered easiness of co-parenting instead of solo parenting—a relaxing day at the beach instead of a stress-plagued ordeal of constant vigilance.

  Like slipping into an old robe, it’s so comfortable and soft that I never want to take it off. And sitting here, I’m reminded of all the good things we had and how good we used to be at making something wonderful out of nothing.

  Molly turns her paper cup over in the sand, creating a perfect-cast cylinder to complete the wall of her castle, and I release the sand crab we captured earlier. The tiny creature scurries sideways to find a way out, instinctively heading for the ocean, its movements becoming frantic when it runs up against the wall.

  “Maybe it would be happier if we let it go?” I say.

  “But he might get huwrt,” she says, her emotions torn between wanting to contain her new pet or release it.

  “Maybe, but that’s where his home is. He looks like he really wants to go back.”

  Molly uses her cup to scoop up the little guy, and together we carry it back to the wash and set it free, then we return to our spot in the sand and to building the fortress. I smile at the chocolate smudges on the corners of her mouth. Lunch today was fried clams and French fries from a nearby fish stand followed by ice cream.

  We ate our cones while watching the skateboarders at the skate park.

  Dad, don’t you know how to skateboard? Emily asked, pure adoration in her eyes.