Class Mom

by Laurie Gelman

  Especially after my husband has been in there, I think but do not say.

  Ron brings me home with my filled prescription of painkillers; after I assure him I’ll be fine, he heads off to the store. He has left me propped up on the comfy couch with ice on my crotch and the remote in my hand. Who could ask for more? Peetsa is taking Max to her place after school, so I am a lady of leisure for a few hours. I pick up the phone and call Garth.

  “What did the doctor say?” is how he greets me.

  “No breaks or cracks, just a pulled ligament and a really bad bruise.”

  “Oh, Lordy, thank goodness. Did he say when you could start training again?”

  “Nothing for three weeks; then we’ll see. That will give us three until the race.”

  Silence.

  “What is it?”

  “Jen, we may want to rethink the mud run for April.”

  “Are you crazy? It’s just a bruise. I’m fine!” I’m practically yelling.

  “Take it easy.” Garth’s voice is annoyingly calm. “Hear me out.”

  I let out an audible sigh and give the phone the finger. “Okay, what?”

  “You have done great work. I can’t believe how far we’ve come over the past six months.”

  “Garth, don’t handle me, please. Just spit it out.” I’m speaking more harshly than I mean to, but my patience has already been taxed by twenty minutes of medical attention spread out over four hours at the hospital.

  “Okay, here it is. If you’re benched for the next three weeks, you will not be ready for the mud run. You think you’ll be back where you left off, but you won’t—you’ll be out of shape. It won’t take you long to get back to peak performance, but I’d rather you not risk another injury. There is another run in Springfield in August. We can aim for that.”

  He’s right. I know he’s right.

  “But I feel so ready. That’s exactly what I was thinking in the bath last night. I was wishing the race was today.”

  “Well, be thankful that it isn’t. We can reevaluate in a month, but right now I say we take it off the table.”

  “I’ll agree to reevaluate in a month,” I concede, stubborn to the end. “What can I do right now, while I’m recovering?”

  “Rest, Jen. That’s the best medicine. Don’t jump the gun, or you’ll be on your butt for another month. I’ll come and see you tomorrow.” I hear a voice screaming in the background. “And Nina says you’re a spaz.”

  “Ha! Tell her to call me later. I’m going to take a nap.” I stifle a yawn.

  “Good girl. See you tomorrow.”

  I hang up with Garth and snuggle down into the comfy couch. Just as I’m nodding off, my cell phone buzzes. It’s a text from Asami.

  Can you meet?

  Oh, God, I’m so not in the mood for her brand of crazy right now. I decide to ignore it.

  The phone buzzes twice more in quick succession.

  Hello?

  Can you meet?

  I growl and type a quick reply.

  Not feeling well. Let’s try next week.

  Of course, Asami is back at me in seconds. She must have twenty fingers.

  It’s important.

  I know I can’t do anything today, but I might be able to see her tomorrow, so I text her as much.

  Where?

  My house at 1.

  I don’t get another text, but I can imagine Asami firmly nodding to herself.

  * * *

  The next day at one sharp, Asami rings my doorbell. Nina and Garth had come earlier to bring me lunch (Taco Bell, my favorite binge) so I asked them to let her in on their way out. I hear an exchange of greetings and a little mumbling; then Asami joins me in the living room.

  “I had no idea you had an accident.” I think I hear genuine concern in her voice, and I’m touched.

  “Yup. I slipped getting out of the bathtub.” The more I say it, the more of an idiot I feel like.

  “Did you yell, ‘I’ve fallen and I can’t get up’?” Asami asks. It takes me a moment to realize this is her idea of a joke. I smile.

  “Good one. So what’s up?”

  “Well…” She sits in the chair across from me and undoes her coat. No duck hat today, sadly. I would have loved for Nina to see it. “I hate to kick you when you’re down, so to speak, but your idea didn’t work.”

  “My idea about…” I leave the question hanging. I know what she’s talking about, but I need to make her pay for her joke.

  She frowns at me.

  “Your idea of telling Sasha Lewicki that she had won something, so she would show up and claim it. It didn’t work. No one showed up.”

  “You sent her an email?”

  Asami nods.

  “Using a fake address?”

  She nods again.

  “And told her she won…”

  “Ten thousand dollars.”

  “Really? Where did you tell her she could collect it?”

  “The food court at the mall. In front of the Wok and Roll.”

  No wonder it didn’t work.

  “Why there?”

  “I wanted a crowd around in case something unexpected happened.”

  “Like what?”

  Asami shrugs.

  “I don’t know. I just wanted witnesses.”

  I shift on the couch and wince in pain. I should really take another painkiller but I’ll hold off until Asami leaves, although this conversation might be more enjoyable if I were a bit high.

  “How long did you wait?”

  “Five hours.”

  “And no one showed. Did you see anyone you know?”

  “I saw a lot of people from school.”

  “Did you talk to anyone?”

  “Not really.” Asami looks a little embarrassed. “Some people waved, though.”

  “Well, it’s very possible that she did show up and saw you and maybe some other people from the class, and she got spooked. Or she did show up, but you know her by another name. Who did you see?”

  Asami closes her eyes and thinks for a moment.

  “I saw Principal Jakowski, Peetsa, Kim Fancy and her daughter, um … and Zach Elder’s mother.”

  “Trudy.”

  “Right, yes. Trudy. That was pretty much it.”

  “Huh. Well, I don’t know what to say. I’m sure she’ll show herself at some point.” I stifle a yawn. “Sorry. I’m still a little dopey.”

  Asami jumps up the way Max does when I tell him dinner’s ready.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I should go. Thanks for hearing me out.” I can tell she’s a bit bummed by this setback in her investigation.

  She pulls on her coat and starts toward the door.

  “Can I get you anything before I go?”

  “No, I’m fine, but thank you. And don’t worry, Asami. There’s probably a really simple explanation for this whole thing.”

  Asami gives me the firm nod that I now associate only with her and leaves me to my painkillers.

  * * *

  The aftermath of my bathroom hijinks brings forth some good news and some bad news. The bad news was that Dr. Sintay says I definitely should not go on our spring break family ski trip out west. The good news? I’m staying home alone for a week. Well, not completely alone. Nina will move in with me, and Chyna will take my place on the slopes.

  I know I should be more upset about this, but I can’t seem to muster the sadness. I love the place we always go—a little hidden gem in Utah called Solitude that totally lives up to its name. I swear there has never been a lift line even if we are skiing the busiest week of the year. It’s populated mostly by locals who want to avoid the craziness of Park City, and I absolutely love going there … usually.

  But since the accident, all I can think of is the sheer felicity of time to myself. What, oh what, will I do to fill the days that are usually taken up with errands and housecleaning and laundry and Max and Ron and their various time-sucking wants and needs? Don’t for one minute think I don’t absolutely adore
my life as a wife and mom. But even the best lives need a vacation and, let’s face it, renting a house with your family at a ski resort is not a vacation. It’s basically moving your life from one location to another. Unless someone else is making the beds, doing the laundry, and cooking, it’s just the same old life with the added inconvenience of not knowing where anything is in the kitchen.

  My convalescence is going more slowly than I thought it would, so I am completely useless when it comes to packing Ron and Max for the trip. Max is only capable of loading up the toys he wants, and Ron hasn’t packed a bag since the day he said “I do.” It’s nothing short of torture for me to sit in bed while he ransacks the storage bins and throws things willy-nilly into suitcases.

  “Sweetie, you may want to have Max try on some of his ski clothes before you pack them.”

  Since this is about the thirtieth time I have butted into his business, Ron is done with me. He pauses on his way out the door.

  “I love you, but if you say one more thing to me about packing, I’m going to hide your pain meds.”

  I don’t tell him I switched to Aleve two days ago because the painkillers were interfering with my wine drinking. I stay mute for the rest of the morning, knowing full well that Max’s toothbrush and toothpaste will never make it into the suitcase.

  And now I sit on my super-comfy couch with six days stretching out in front of me like a red carpet of possibilities. Scrumptious smells are coming from my kitchen, where Nina is cooking dinner, and a fine glass of wine is within reach. If it weren’t for the constant ache down there, life would be pretty perfect.

  I grab my laptop from the side table and open it up. There is a joke email from Peetsa with the subject line “15 Ways to Make Everything Awkward,” the usual spate of crap from the Gap, Zappos, Pottery Barn, and Weight Watchers, and a note from my mother.

  * * *

  To: JDixon

  From: KHoward

  Date: 3/26

  Subject: How are you feeling?

  Honey,

  How are you feeling? Better, I hope. I would call, but ever since I woke you up in the middle of the day I’m worried I’ll do it again and I know how you need your sleep. But please call me whenever you want, oh but not for the next few days. Dad and I are heading out of town to our post–St. Patrick’s Day drying-out retreat. Half of our congregation is still loaded.

  Feel better, sweetheart.

  Love,

  Your Mother

  * * *

  I’m just about to close my computer when an email pops up from Miss Ward.

  * * *

  To: JDixon

  From: PWard

  Date: 3/26

  Subject: Spring break

  Hello, Jenny,

  Haven’t seen you in a while and then someone told me about your accident. Hope you are feeling better.

  On April 12, we will be taking a class trip to the Elbow Chocolate factory. I think the children will enjoy seeing how chocolate bunnies are made.

  I will need 3 mothers to go with us. Can you and Asami send out a note?

  Thanks,

  Peggy

  * * *

  Well, this is pretty odd, considering we had our Easter celebration just before the break. But mine is not to reason why. The clown car that is the inner workings of Miss Ward’s mind will remain an enigma to me. Oh, and by the way, I’ll be skipping that field trip, thank you very much. Putting me in a chocolate factory is like putting an alcoholic in a whiskey distillery. I have a serious addiction and the only way I can keep it in check is complete abstinence. There were some dark (chocolate) days when I first returned from Europe and realized full-on what my life was going to be like (a) living with my parents and two small daughters and (b) working at a crappy job. Things looked pretty bleak, so I turned to my one constant source of sunshine … chocolate. I got quite a taste for the good stuff while I was chasing bands overseas. Ever have a Milka Bar? INXS used to insist on having them in the green room at their concerts. My mouth waters just thinking about it. I am not exaggerating when I say I ate that sweet devil for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day for about six months. I couldn’t stop, nor did I want to. Chocolate made me happy—fat and happy, and then just fat. I remember vividly the day I took Vivs and Laura for their flu shots. I asked the nurse to give me one, too. She looked me up and down and said, “Let me ask the doctor. I’m not sure it’s okay in your condition. How far along are you?”

  That was it. I went home, threw out a good ten pounds of Milka Bars a friend and fellow band stalker had sent me, and have almost never touched chocolate again. I think that’s one of the reasons I hate Halloween—all that chocolate coming into my house unprotected and available.

  I need to email the class immediately to start trolling for volunteers.

  * * *

  To: Miss Ward’s Class

  From: JDixon

  Date: 3/26

  Subject: Chocolate, anyone?

  Hello, classmates!

  Happy spring break! Hope you are all having a nice week off. Obviously, I’m still on duty as your trusty class mom. It’s a 24/7 job that knows no rest. You’re welcome.

  Miss Ward wanted Asami and me to let you know our kids will be going on a field trip to the Elbow Chocolate factory on April 12. Yes, I realize we have already had our class Easter party, but Miss Ward has arranged for them to learn how to make chocolate bunnies so that next year they will be ready! Anyhoo, I need 3 parent volunteers to help chaperone the trip.

  I know many of you have yet to volunteer for a field trip and I have no problem calling you out in the parking lot at pickup if I have to. My advice is to jump on this bandwagon. It’s chocolate, for God’s sake. It doesn’t get much better than that.

  Response times will be noted.

  I remain forever your girl,

  Jen (and Asami in spirit)

  * * *

  I close my laptop and sigh. I wonder how the ski trip is going. It’s only been a couple of days, but I miss my crew and wonder how they’re getting on without the shoemaker’s elf (that’s me). I’m fairly certain Vivs and Laura are helping Ron with everything and not just playing house with their boyfriends. They had the fear of God put in them at a very early age. I worry most about Max, because I know he’s going to miss me. I tucked a few love notes into his suitcase for him to find randomly, just to let him know I’m thinking of him. I would have done the same for Ron but my poor baby has hidden-note PTSD from his crazy ex-wife. Cindy used to put a couple of dozen notes into his bag whenever he went away for a boys’ weekend or a sporting-goods expo. He had to open each note at a certain time on a certain day, and she would call to make sure he was doing it. Every note ended the same way: “Don’t you dare cheat on me. I will know if you do. All my love, Cindy.”

  “Dinner’s ready.” Nina sashays over to the comfy couch to help me get up. I can walk, but getting up and down is still painful.

  “Sure you don’t want to eat in the living room?” she asks.

  “Nah.” I grab her arm, and together we hoist me up. “I need a change of scenery.” As I stand, my ’gines starts to throb and my eyes water from the pain. But I suck it up, make my way to the table, and ease onto one of the padded dining room chairs. Dinner looks great.

  “What is this? It smells delicious.”

  “Curried chicken, mango chutney, green beans with pesto and parmesan, and basmati rice.” Nina sits at the head of the table and raises her wineglass to me.

  “You found all that in my kitchen?”

  “You have a lot of great stuff in your cupboards. You guys must get a lot of gift baskets, because you have all these little jars of gourmet ingredients that I know damn well you didn’t buy yourself.”

  “Like what?” I’m trying not to be insulted.

  “Uh, caviar, pralines, chili pepper jam, vacuum-packed Israeli dates, cornichons.” Nina counts them off on her fingers.

  “Okay, okay.” I take a bite of the chicken and savor it. “Oh, my
God. This is so good.” I raise my wineglass. “Here’s to the chef.”

  Nina clinks my glass.

  “And thank you for staying with me. I really owe you.”

  Nina waves my gratitude aside. “Are you kidding? I’m loving this. I hope you don’t mind if Garth comes over sometimes.”

  “Not at all. I’m hoping he’ll start me on some stretches or something. I have quite a little food baby, thanks to not working out for two weeks.” I pat my stomach for effect.

  Nina gives me the “You’re nuts” look and continues eating. I decide now is a good time to spring an idea on her that I have had brewing for a couple of weeks.

  “So, what’s the word on Sid?”

  She raises her eyebrows.

  “Um … not much. I finally blocked him on Facebook. I’m guessing he got the message. Why?”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking that he hasn’t suffered nearly enough for being such a world-class douchebag to you.”

  Nina shrugs. “I’m over it.” Jeez, doesn’t anyone hold a grudge anymore? She is living proof that nothing makes you forget an old love faster than a new love.

  “Well, I care. That guy needs to suffer for his sins.”

  Nina sits back with her wine and a curious look on her face.

  “And how do you propose he suffer?” She picks a piece of rice out of her teeth.

  “We spam him.” I grab my wine and take a sip.

  “We what?”

  “Spam him. Sign him up for every stupid spam email possible.”

  “Seriously?”

  I can tell by Nina’s face she doesn’t think much of my idea.

  “Think about it. There is nothing more annoying than having your In box jammed with hundreds of messages from every website in the world. I propose we sign him up for everything from Jehovah’s Witnesses to the Kardashian fan page.”

  Nina starts to giggle. “Or a Green Bay Packers fan site. He hates that team so much.”

  “Okay, good. Now you’re talking. What else does he hate?”