by Lisa Samson
He ushers me into the kitchen. “Surprise!”
A peach pie sits in the center of the table. He reaches out and lights the candle in the middle. “Happy birthday, Ivy!”
“Oh my goodness. I forgot today was my birthday!”
Thirty-nine years old. Good grief.
In a warbly old voice, he sings the song.
God, I love life sometimes.
13
I’m typing away for Tony, darn him. Mom enters the kitchen. “Look at that living room, Ivy. I feel like I can’t breathe in my own home!”
“I’m sorry, Mom. The kids are still little and playing with toys. I just can’t keep things straight twenty-four hours a day.”
“When I got up this morning there were toys all over the floor. I stepped on a LEGO and thought I would scream. And with my diabetes, I can’t take chances of injuries down there.”
Excuse me for living.
“Okay, okay. I’ll try harder. I really will. I’m sorry.”
I’m on pins and needles all the time now. I mean, she hasn’t lived here for years. Grandma and Grandpa owned the house. I know she grew up here and owns it now, but this is my home too, and has been for a long time.
She crosses her arms. “And I hate the new color of the living room. That dark berry makes it look half the size, and it wasn’t a big room to begin with.”
What do I say? I can’t fight back. She’s sick. And she was never like this before. It’s the illness talking. It’s the illness talking.
The illness talking.
Persy stands in the doorway. “Winky! Hey Arnold! is on! Want to watch?”
She turns toward him, and as her face swivels from me, I see it clear. “I love that Helga. She’s hilarious!”
My son holds out his hand. “Come on, Winky. I’ve got a spot saved for you on the couch.”
Rescued by a nine-year-old.
I call Lou. “Mom hates the color of the living room.”
“Oh drat.”
“Should I repaint it?”
“Let me think for a sec. How’s everything else going?”
“Okay. I’m so tired.”
“Got a solution. Why don’t you offer to buy the house from her?” Hmm? “Never thought of that before.”
“With Rusty’s raise, it would be a good investment.”
I do the mental calculations. Day care. IND. A mortgage? “Maybe so.”
“There you go.”
“I hope I can find the courage to bring it up.”
“You never know, she may welcome the idea.”
“I’ll run it by Rust.”
Owning this place for ourselves. The idea attaches itself to me. I buzz off an e-mail to Rusty and continue this week’s column, which is about honoring your parents no matter what your age. Or theirs. Man, it’s so hard sometimes, though, when you feel you just can’t do anything right in their eyes, and the vision you possess of yourself seems to deteriorate week by week. I don’t care how old a woman is, when her mother criticizes her, it chips away at her self-confidence.
I send Tony the column, and e-mail comes in. Great, one from Rusty.
Hey Ive,
It’s a great idea to buy the house. I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time, but, it being your family’s place, didn’t want to assume. Let’s go for it.
Hey, I started on a diet and have lost twenty pounds so far. You’d be proud of me.
How are the kids?
Blah, blah, blah.
The closing music to Hey Arnold! begins, and I think, “There’s no time like the present.”
“Mom! Phone call! A lady named Candace Frost?” Lyra.
My so-called agent!
“I’ll take it upstairs!”
I bound up the steps two at a time, race into the bedroom, and shut the door. “Hello?”
I hear Lyra’s line go dead. I still haven’t told anyone about Candace. I still can’t.
“Ivy. I’ve got good news.”
I arrange a pillow against the headboard. “Great.”
“I found a smaller publishing house interested in your manuscript. It may need a little tweaking to fit their audience, but nothing you can’t handle.”
“What kind of tweaking?”
“Well, they cater to men, but they like the story idea. Can you change your protagonist to a man?”
Wow. A man? “I guess so. But half the story is about an unwanted pregnancy.”
“Maybe he’s got a girlfriend?”
“I’ll make it work.”
“Most of their books have a lot of violence in them. But if you can fit it into the plot line, it won’t be gratuitous.”
“Okay.”
“And you’ll have to write under a pen name. Or do your initials for your first name. Something like that.”
“No problem there.” I might be able to keep this a secret for years to come.
“I’ll tell them you’re interested, then we’ll start talking figures.”
“As in money?”
“Right. Leave that part to me, though. I’ll get you as much as they’ll possibly give.”
As if I even believe that. I may be a novice in the publishing world, but not in the world in general. People hang on to as much of their money as possible.
The rest of the day I can’t wipe the silly grin off my face. Dear Lord, please let this work out. Please please please.
Mitch Sullivan enters the bistro, three other men accompanying him. “Ivy!”
“Mitch!” Did somebody jump-start my heart?
“Thought I’d bring a little business your way. Got a table for four?”
“Absolutely. Some good lunch specials today. Brian and the boys went all out.” I sound so professional and smooth.
I show them to a table in the back corner, private and perfect for business. “Can I get you all something to drink?”
Water. Water. Decaf. Coke for Mitch.
I fade into the background as I should.
And that’s me, isn’t it? Fading into the background. Hey! When did I become so obscure? The kids went back to school, which I can’t believe starts in August these days. How horrible for them. Trixie’s still at the day care down the street from the restaurant. Mom just moved back to her apartment with a Life Alert necklace around her neck, and Rusty’s in Minneapolis.
Or is it Milwaukee?
I don’t like that Mom’s on her own, but I’m definitely glad to be out of the trajectory of her barbs. Honestly, Mom and I used to be so close. I hate this. I feel like I’ve lost her already.
I’m praying like crazy that she doesn’t burn the place down around her.
Harry keeps to himself for the most part, and now that Mom’s back home, I’m not on edge about that subterfuge.
A small breathing space surrounds me, and I should be enjoying it a lot more than I am. But I’m worried. About Mom, about Rusty, about Brett, not to mention my own family. Poor Trixie. A little boy named Brady has been downright cruel. I mean, we parents secretly like it when our kids get a taste of their own medicine, but enough is enough.
After the meal a lot of handshaking occurs, and everyone but Mitch exits the restaurant.
“When do you get off work?” he asks.
Whoa. “Three. Persy gets off the bus at three forty-five, and I have to be home by then.”
“Bummer. Okay.”
“Why?”
“Well, just have something I want to talk over with you. You still interested in freelance writing jobs?”
“Definitely. Trixie’s day-care fees are killing me. Lyra’s in private school, and we’re thinking about buying the house from Mom.”
“How about getting together tonight? Can you meet me for coffee?”
Yes! Yes! “It’ll have to be late.” I’ll have Harry keep an eye on the kids. He can handle them sleeping.
“That’s fine. You still live nearby, right? At your grandparents’ place?”
I nod.
“How about at that Starb
ucks across from Greetings and Readings? It’s more quiet than the one here in Towson.”
“They got one there?”
“Yeah, just down from the Crack Pot.”
The Crack Pot. Maybe we should meet there. It would be fitting for me. The place looks like a dump, but they make great seafood. Sounds just like me. “Okay. How about nine thirty?”
“Great. See you there.”
Off he goes, all businesslike and professional and real. And there. Mitch in the actual flesh. I shouldn’t compare him to Rusty. I shouldn’t wish my husband were more normal. But I can’t help myself. Yeah, Ivy, you thought being with the artsy type would be so cool.
Man.
As I hurry into the day care, the director stops me. “Mrs. Schneider?”
“Yes?”
She lays a hand on my arm. Oh no, here it comes.
“We had a bit of a problem with Bellatrix today.”
“I’m sorry.” One of these days, I’m just going to have “I’m sorry” tattooed on my forehead. It would make things so much easier. “What did she do?”
“Does she normally take her diaper off?”
“I wouldn’t say normally.”
“Well, she did it several times today. All the toys are going to have to be disinfected, and there’s a fee for that.”
“How much?”
“Fifty dollars.”
I root for my checkbook. “At least she didn’t hit someone over the head today.”
Unfortunately, the director doesn’t find that at all funny.
Trixie runs into my arms after the transaction and kisses me all over the face. I kiss her back, and we smile at each other. She smells clean and sweet. I hold her hand as we leave and rest under no delusion that the staff isn’t glad to see her go.
I’ve decided on a venti caramel macchiato. Whole milk, lots of sugar and fat. Yes ma’am. Mitch orders the same.
“You’re my kind of gal, Ive. These women that drink skim stuff drive me nuts.”
“Well, it’s a special occasion. I’m celebrating the fact that I’m here as Ivy Starling, writer and friend, and nothing else.”
“Great. Grab a couple of chairs, and I’ll wait for the drinks.”
I sink into a plush, mustard chair and close my eyes. I need more of these moments.
Mitch wears jeans and a heavy T-shirt. Still slender, he sports a nice flat stomach, a good tush. Fine red-blond hairs soften his arms. I should flee. But he’s just a friend. Nobody would blame me for feeling this way, if the feelings remain only that. We all experience unwanted physical attraction at times. Usually it’s over men on television and movie screens. Sometimes it’s for real.
I was a fool to let him go. He loved me once.
Keep it business, Ivy, and get thee behind me, Satan!
My own feelings scared me so much I purposely didn’t comb my hair or put on lipstick. I mean, infidelity is a big sin. A big, big sin. And it’s got to start somewhere right?
“So what’s up, Mitch?”
“I’m thinking about starting a newsletter.”
“Oh yeah? For international business?”
“No. It’s an organization I’m trying to start called MOMS.”
“Moms?” That sounds like something I know a little about.
“Yeah, actually, M-O-M-S. It stands for Mothers Off Main Street.”
“And the purpose?”
“It would find jobs for women who need to work but want to stay home and raise their children.”
“Telecommuting stuff?”
“Primarily. Bona fide assembly work, too. None of that envelope-stuffing malarkey. I’ve already contacted twenty major corporations who’ve agreed to participate.”
“Makes sense. Less overhead for them. And did you actually just use the term malarkey?”
He laughs. “Yes, as a matter of fact I did. Anyway, the plan works for everyone.”
“That’s what you need.”
He sips his drink. “Everyone needs a little incentive. So what do you think?”
His eyes are so deep. And he’s sensitive and caring and wants to give back to the community.
He gets better and better every second. Lord, help me.
“Sounds fabulous.”
“I’ve got a couple of people interested in doing research, and a lot more corporate ins. All you’d have to do is the writing and, if you’re able, format the actual newsletter.”
“What kind of circulation are you talking about?”
“Twenty thousand to start. But we’re hoping to get a real Web presence going. And we’ll definitely want to send the newsletter out by e-mail, too.”
“Oh yeah. Absolutely.”
“Now, let’s get down to brass tacks. I’m figuring this is going to take you around four hours a day. If you’re still the fast worker you used to be.”
“I’m faster.”
“I figured.”
“Motherhood will do that to you.”
“And you’ll be our first placement. Get you out of that restaurant.”
Wow. That’s true! And Trixie out of day care. Although maybe I’ll leave her in for a couple hours a day to get work done. Rusty’ll take this as license to stay away, though, but hey, you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. You can’t sit around twiddling your thumbs getting angrier and angrier while the world passes you by and you age day by day, and my goodness, Ivy!
“Four hours sounds right. Probably a little more nearing press date.”
“Of course. Let’s talk money, then. You’re an experienced writer, so how does four a month sound?”
“Well, that’s a little low. I make considerably more than that from the bistro.”
“More than four thousand? I had no idea it was doing that well! Good for you. I guess I could go up to four-five.”
Four thousand? Keep your mouth shut, Ivy. Keep the shock from overloading your expression. “You’ve got a deal.”
“Great. I’ll have my assistant draw up the paperwork, and we’ll get started at the beginning of September. Can we get the first issue out by November?”
“Absolutely.”
He puts out his hand. I take it. We shake, and oh, how good the warmth feels. I hang on to it for a couple of seconds and squeeze. “I’m glad you came back home, Mitch.”
He squeezes back. “Me too, Ivy.”
“Now why can’t they have a picture of these glass fortresses?”
Persy and I lay on the bottom bunk together. I have a rule. My kids can stay up as long as they want provided they are reading. This must be a great book. It’s eleven o’clock.
“I agree, Perse. And if there are as many as they say, why not give us a look-see?”
“I know. Can we go to Scotland someday to see one?”
“I hope so. That would be really cool.”
“Castles of melted rock.” Dreamy-eyed boy, lost in some imaginary battle with an imaginary magic sword in front of some glass castle.
This is good. I can understand this conversation. When he gets going about Mario and Wario and Sonic and, heaven help us all, the legion of Digimon characters, I just nod and smile, nod and smile.
“Persy, how are you doing with Winky and all?”
“Fine.”
“You know, the reason she acts differently sometimes is because she’s sick. Deep inside, she’s really the same old Winky.”
“Okay. Hey, look at this huge mound in England! A hundred and thirty feet high! Let’s read this one. Oh, wait a minute, look at this crystal skull!”
I guess we all escape in different ways.
This isn’t going well.
Maybe it was too early. Maybe waiting until after the lunch rush to broach the house-buying subject would have proved more prudent.
“Just think about it, Mom. That’s all I’m asking. I’m really not trying to take anything away from you.”
“I’m just concerned about your brother and sister and their share in this.”
“Well, we’ll hav
e to take out a mortgage. You’ll get the cash, and you can distribute it to them.”
She nods. “I feel a little queasy right now. How about some soup?”
“Okay.”
“Maybe you can get your grandfather to come over and make a pot of his chicken dumpling soup.”
What good will it do to remind her Grandpop’s been dead for ten years?
“That sure is good soup, Mom.”
I could use some myself about now.
Persy’s laying in bed, Ancient Marvels and Mysteries resting on his chest again. I slide under the covers, settle another pillow behind my head. “I’ve got a present for you. Just something little.” I reach into my front jeans pocket. “Here.”
He accepts the disc of amber. “Is this what I think it is?”
“Yep. Remember that part in your book about looking at sunspots?”
“Yeah.” His sensitive fingers run over the smooth surface. “Too bad it’s nighttime.”
“I know. But it’s supposed to be sunny tomorrow.”
“Cool.”
“Don’t you wonder what people thought those spots were when they looked at them for the first time?”
“I’ll bet they thought the sun was burning out.”
“And that some god was angry with them.”
“That would be scary.” He holds the amber up to the lamp on his nightstand. “It’s a good thing God’s not like that, isn’t it?”
“Unfortunately, a lot of people think He’s sitting in heaven, ready to zap us with lightning bolts.”
“Like Zeus.”
“Exactly.”
“Bennie next door says his grandmother’s always zapping him for all sorts of things.”
“Makes Winky not seem so bad.”
“I feel sorry for Winky. She was throwing up again, wasn’t she? I heard her in the bathroom after supper.”
“Yeah. She seemed to be fine when I drove her home, though.”
“I hate it when I throw up.”
“Me too, bud.”
14
The phone rings at 11:15 p.m. Who in the world?
“Ivy, it’s Dani, Brian’s girlfriend.”
Oh no. “Hi! Everything okay?”
“Well, not really. I’m here at the police station with Brian.”
