by Janis Thomas
Lena stops and gazes at him. I carefully, silently, step back and allow myself to be swallowed up by the darkness of Kate’s room just as Lena turns and looks around to make sure no one is watching.
I should leave. I should tiptoe out of Kate’s room and go downstairs and sit on the couch and watch the rest of whatever crap show she’s watching. But I cannot. I step forward. Through the crack of the door, I see Lena slide her fingers up Josh’s thigh, up under the towel.
“Just this once, okay, Joshy? Just one time and never again. Okay?”
His nod is almost imperceptible. I catch it and so does Lena. “Okay,” she says.
The terry cloth twitches with the movement of her hand, slow at first, then gaining speed. His head jerks back, and he moans again. Although his face is twisted into a grimace, there is no mistaking the nature of this moan.
My son is having his first sexual experience. I am a witness, lurking in the shadows, knowing full well that I am also the executioner of this memory. I will kill it before it takes hold. It will linger in my mind for a while before time obscures it. Josh will not remember it at all.
I think of Colin in his office, Lena’s hands on his neck.
My guilt is tempered by my hostility.
I’m sorry, Joshy.
But not sorry enough.
Saturday, August 6
She’s gone. I know as soon as I walk into the kitchen for breakfast. The energy in the room is different somehow. Josh listlessly eats the oatmeal offered to him by Colin. Colin barely acknowledges my entrance. He absently feeds Josh while silently poring over his newspaper. I see a middle-aged man and a man-child, both deflated by a void they don’t even realize exists.
Today is Saturday. No caregivers. I’ll have to wait two days to see her replacement, but whoever she might be, she is nothing like Lena. I can tell by the way Colin and Josh hold themselves. Whoever she is, she does not charge the air with her sexuality and charisma. Her spirit does not carry over from her presence the night before, as Lena’s did.
“Maah,” Josh says, but without enthusiasm. He turns to face me as I kneel before him, and there is a sharp edge to his gaze. He looks as though he’s lost something, something precious, but he can’t figure out what it is. His eyes implore me for an answer he knows I don’t possess. I do, but it’s a secret I must keep.
“Morning, honey,” I say. Regret oozes from my pores. I smell the stink of it. “How did you sleep?”
“Aye h’ th’ weedis dre lah nie.” I had the weirdest dream last night.
“So what else is new?” Katie says as she bustles into the kitchen. “You’re always having weird dreams, loser.”
Usually Josh brays with laughter at his sister’s derogatory comments. He knows that love underlies them. But this morning he doesn’t even grin. “Y’ w’ the,” he tells me solemnly. You were there.
I don’t want to hear the dream. I suspect it mirrors the image burned into my brain of Lena and my son in the upstairs bathroom. I didn’t record last night’s wish in my journal because I desperately want the memory to fade. But the edges of this particular memory haven’t even begun to blur, and I suspect they never will.
“The wa’ suwuh e’ the’, t’,” he says. There was someone else there, too.
“Was it me?” Kate asks as she drops a piece of bread in the toaster. Josh jerks his head no.
“Who was it?”
“Aye doe ’o,” Josh says. I don’t know.
“So, what’s on deck?” I interject, trying to change the subject.
Josh stares at me past the spoon Colin is holding up to him. He knows something. Not in the way Dolores knows, but on some primal level. Josh senses that not-right feeling. I avoid his eyes by addressing Katie directly.
“Are we still going to the outlets today for school clothes?”
Kate nods. Her bread pops from the toaster, and she grabs it with two fingers. “I was planning on it.”
“What’s this now?” Colin folds his newspaper and pushes it to the center of the table, then looks up at Kate and me.
“There’s a sale at the outlets, this weekend only. I’m taking her for school clothes.” Colin narrows his eyes at me. For a split second, I see Lena standing behind him, hands on his shoulders. I blink and she is gone.
“What about Josh?” he asks. “Are you taking him?”
I smile at my husband through clenched teeth. “No. I’m leaving him with you. We discussed this earlier in the week.”
Josh is no longer looking at me. His head hangs against his chest, his eyes are closed. But he is not asleep. I can tell by his posture. I sense the struggle going on inside his brain, the tug-of-war he plays with his elusive dream, with the memory I stole from him.
A mother’s job is made up of a tireless barrage of decisions, most of which we question, all of which we make based on what we think is best for our child. Occasionally, although we don’t admit it and possibly don’t even realize it ourselves, we make decisions based on what’s best for us. I know I wished Lena away for myself. But last night I had no doubt I was also doing the right thing for my son. This morning, I’m not so sure.
“Is there a problem, Colin?”
Colin shakes his head. “No . . . I just . . . I wanted to go to the library.”
“Why don’t you take Josh with you?” I suggest. Our library has a multimedia room that is outfitted for handicapable persons. Josh always enjoys himself there.
“Aye doe wah t’ g’ t’ th libree,” he says. I don’t want to go to the library. His eyes remain closed. Colin sighs with resignation, and I have the urge to rebuke my husband for making his disappointment so obvious to our son. Josh’s life is a series of disappointments.
A month ago, I was weighed down by my own disappointments, by the ways in which I felt life had let me down. But now, as I gaze at my son, knowing I have imparted another blow, created another defeat for him, I realize that ours, Colin’s and my disappointments, have no meaning compared to his.
“Oh, well, that’s okay, buddy,” Colin says, his voice full of false earnestness. “We’ll just do something else. Maybe we can rent a couple of movies on demand or look up some cool stuff online.”
“Wuevuh,” Josh replies. Whatever.
My heart breaks for Josh. I can’t unwish. That’s the rule. Even if I could, I probably wouldn’t. But Lena’s departure has affected him in a way I didn’t anticipate. I only hope I can find some way to make it up to him.
TWENTY-FIVE
The outlets are just off the highway at the edge of town. We arrive a full fifteen minutes before the stores open at ten, but the parking lot is already full.
“We should have brought the van,” Katie jokes, gesturing to the many available handicapped spaces.
After a lengthy search, I locate a slot at the far end of the lot. Waves of August heat shimmer up from the macadam. Women, children, and men trudge toward the long row of outlets like a herd of cattle. Minivans disgorge strollers and infants and fussing toddlers and bored grade schoolers. Mothers struggle to organize their broods in the most timely and efficient manner possible, motivated by the possibility of skinny jeans at 50 percent off.
Kate and I enjoy the air-conditioned car for a few moments, leisurely finishing up our Starbucks as we go over her list of clothing needs for her senior year. The list is long. Finally, we emerge from the car and step out into the hot sun, both of us gasping at the radical change in temperature. We walk toward the beige stucco buildings without haste. She skips ahead a few feet and I gaze at her from behind, seeing her as if for the first time. She has grown taller, and the slight plumpness she always carried has melted away, leaving a lithe, nubile young woman. Her hair bounces across her back, catching the light of the sun. She turns and bestows upon me a beatific smile. Katie is beautiful. But more than that. She is happy.
We bypass Katie’s former fashion alma mater, Juicy Couture, and head for 7 For All Mankind. My daughter knows what she wants.
I was
never a slave to designer labels. My grandmother was a seamstress and taught my mother the skill. Many a night I fell asleep to the rhythmic sound of the sewing machine. That sound was better than a nighttime story or counting sheep. It represented safety and security to me. I knew exactly where my mother was, a room away, a mere call of her name away, a heartbeat away.
Growing up, I had a closet filled with homemade clothing, all of which fit me like a glove. Peer pressure existed, although not to the degree it does today, but my contemporaries in grade school and middle school and high school never found my ensembles wanting. In fact, I was approached regularly by eager girls desiring skirts and beaded jackets and slacks just like mine.
My mother tried to teach me how to sew, but her tutelage was lost on me. In the simplest terms, I wasn’t interested in learning, but even if I had been, I would never have achieved her skill level. I am not a creative person, in that crafty kind of way. I never have been. I was skilled at puzzles and word games and algebra. I memorized the entirety of the periodic table in one night. I could right a wronged Rubik’s Cube faster than most. I’m great with a marketing plan and I can arrange words cleverly, seductively, even. But creating something where before there was nothing . . . I did not possess that gift. I didn’t mind back then. I had a mother who made me beautiful ensembles that made me feel fine. That was more than enough for me.
When Kate was a baby, that fearful time during which every hitch in her breath suggested SIDS, I castigated myself for not being able to knit booties or sew together a frock for my precious child. But as time passed, my guilt was assuaged by the realization that even had I learned to sew, my daughter would never have been content with that which I could produce. As a child, she was influenced by the images put forth in magazines and on the TV. She had a keen sense of fashion from the time she was three.
Katie is a savvy consumer of the latest trends. I don’t mind that she wants her appearance to reflect her personality. Even in lean times, I have always budgeted for my daughter’s clothing, knowing that a certain amount of a teenager’s self-esteem is related to his or her outward representation to the world. And I rationalize that Josh, with his limited capacity and correlating limited wardrobe, has saved me a fortune in clothing costs. The fact that his care has been an exorbitant expense remains an extraneous and rarely acknowledged counterargument.
We reach the building, and as soon as we pass through the glass door of 7 For All Mankind, Katie immerses herself in the offerings. She darts from rack to rack, oohing and ahhing and grabbing at hangers with abandon. I stand well away from her, allowing her the freedom to make her own choices, but occasionally she holds an article of clothing up and gives me a questioning look to get my opinion. Each time she shows me something, I nod with approval, and not because I am yessing her but because she has impeccable taste.
She heads for the back of the store, in a race with three other girls for the sacred try-on rooms, of which there are only two. She manages to elbow a competitor out of the way and secure a cubicle.
“Mom,” she calls. “Can you come here?”
I do as requested and stand outside the fitting room. Should she need a different size, a different color, a different ensemble altogether, she doesn’t want to relinquish her cubicle to an awaiting party.
Because she has a plethora of items to try on, and because I know my daughter well enough to know that she will look at herself in each item at varying angles, and likely try the same item on three or four times before she makes a preliminary judgment, I have time to kill. I withdraw my cell phone and swish it to life. I peruse my email in-box, searching for a communication that is not there.
Yesterday evening, before I left Canning and Wells, and after a brief huddle with Valerie, I reached out to Richard Stein and the CEO of SoundStage, imploring them to reconsider their decision to go elsewhere for their PR needs. Today is Saturday, a universally agreed-upon day of rest, but SoundStage is a start-up, a fledgling business, and its administration might consider working weekends mandatory at this point.
Regardless of their stance on Saturday labor, neither Richard Stein nor the CEO of SoundStage has replied to my email. I scroll through spam and a few interoffice memos, most of which can either be deleted or dealt with on Monday.
“Mom, I want to know what you think. I’m coming out, okay?”
Immediately, I tuck my cell phone away. Heat rises to my face as though I’ve been caught doing something untoward.
I think back to BW. Before wishes. When I was home at night, or on weekends with my family, I never checked my office email, and why should I? A lowly executive assistant never brought her work home with her. She needn’t. After all, her boss reminded her ad nauseam that she was dispensable, replaceable. Not the most flattering assessment. But outside that dull-gray building, the lowly executive assistant was free.
Then again, before wishes I likely would not be spending a Saturday with my lovely daughter, buying her clothes. She would be in absentia or barricaded in her room, moaning over her latest contretemps with her boyfriend. And I would be catching up on housework and chores, knowing full well that my daughter was in crisis but not knowing how to approach her or deal with the issue without alienating her completely, so I would choose avoidance.
I owe an inconceivable debt to my new superpower for bringing my daughter and me back together again, but I wonder about my own efficacy in my daughter’s life BW. Before wishes. This last month I have been present in my life, more so than I have been for a long time, if for no other reason than to ascertain the consequences of my wishes. Had I been present before, like I am now, would my daughter have spun out of control in the first place? Would she have sought comfort in the arms of that abhorrent boy if her mother were giving her the attention and nurturing she needed?
Katie emerges from the fitting room and brings my musing to a halt. She wears navy slacks that gather at the waist and flare at the bottom with a sleeveless white turtleneck embroidered at the bottom hem. She looks lovely and mature, and I resist the impulse to throw my arms around her and wish for her not to grow up any more than she already has.
“I love it,” I say simply.
“I don’t know,” she replies. “I think the flared leg will be a problem. I don’t want to trip down the hall at school.”
I consider her words. “True. But you can wear the top with anything. Jeans. A navy skirt.”
“I’ll put the top in the ‘yes’ pile,” she agrees, “and the slacks in the maybe pile.”
I nod. “Good idea.”
“Okay. I’m going to try on the slim cigarette now.”
“The what?” I ask, but she has already disappeared into her cubicle.
“They’re jeans.” I turn to see a bored-looking young woman leaning against the archway between the cubicles and the showroom. She holds a wad of tagged clothing in her arms, and I realize that she is one of the girls Katie beat to the try-on rooms. “You have to be pretty skinny to look good in them,” she says doubtfully, as though she thinks my daughter is too heavy to wear them. I turn away from her and withdraw my cell phone again.
I press the speed dial for Colin. He answers on the fourth ring.
“How’s it going there?” I ask.
“Fine,” he says, slightly annoyed. “I’m working on the manuscript.”
“What about Josh?”
“He’s playing video games.”
“I thought you guys were going to do something together?”
His irritation rises. “I tried, Emma. I suggested several things to Josh. But he wasn’t interested in any of them.”
“Couldn’t you at least play with him?”
Colin lets out an angry breath. “I suggested that, too,” he tells me. “He wanted to play the machine instead of his dad. I tried not to be offended.” I say nothing. “What do you want me to do, huh? Sit in the living room and stare at him while he plays? I thought I could get some work done, try to make some sense of this new chapter. The
monitor’s on. I’ll hear him if he needs me.”
“He seems like he’s in a funk,” I say.
“Yes, well, aren’t we all.”
“Why are you in a funk, Colin?”
He doesn’t respond.
“Okay, Mom, I’m coming out,” Katie calls to me.
“I have to go,” I say, then hang up without saying goodbye. Kate walks out into the open wearing dark-blue formfitting jeans. They look fabulous on her. I nod.
“Definitely a yes.”
She smiles her agreement, then returns to the fitting room. I glance at the young woman and give her a smug grin. She rolls her eyes.
“They really should have a limit on how many things you can try on.”
I shrug with false empathy. “Yes. It’s too bad they don’t.”
We move to the Roxy store. After a short wait for a fitting room, Katie disappears behind another closed door with a bevy of items in her arms. I stand guard outside, three sizable bags from 7 For All Mankind at my feet.
I resist the urge to check my emails and busy myself with searching my purse for a stick of gum or a breath mint. A moment later, I hear Katie’s voice.
“I love this, Mom. I don’t know where I’ll wear it, but I love it.”
“Well? Come on, let me see it.”
She opens the door of the fitting room slowly, as if to make an entrance, then steps out of the cubicle wearing a thigh-length dress with spaghetti straps, a sleek gray bodice, and a diaphanous pale-pink skirt. Her Cinderella smile is contagious. I put my hand on my chest and am about to compliment her when I see her expression change from euphoric to pained.
“God, you look gorgeous” comes a voice from behind me. I whirl around to see my ex-husband standing beside the return rack, looking past me as though I’m not there. His thumbs are looped into the front pockets of his jeans, and he wears a tattered short-sleeved shirt emblazoned with the legend DON’T WORRY, BE HAPPY.
I clench my jaw. “What the hell are you doing here?”
He doesn’t look at me when he responds. His gaze is glued to Katie. “I’m seeing my daughter.”
