by Penny Reid
“It is so a dance. Here, watch me.”
“Dad, no!” I could almost see Jack roll his eyes.
“Jack, where’s your mute button? Or did you have it taken offline?”
“I don’t have a mute button.”
“What? Well then, we’ll need to have one installed as soon as possible . . .” Greg’s voice faded, as did Gracie’s giggles. I heard the front door open and close, then silence.
All at once I realized I was smiling; I also didn’t have a headache. I couldn’t remember the last time I woke up smiling. It was probably the last time Greg had been home.
I allowed myself another few moments of luxury—lying in bed, in the morning, surrounded by quiet—before I sat up and glanced at the alarm clock.
My mouth dropped open.
11:57 a.m.
I couldn’t believe it.
I’d slept for over twelve hours.
Greg was leaving for the airport at 1:00 p.m.
I jumped from the bed and darted to the bathroom, tripping over his shoes and nearly face-planting into the carpet. I caught myself against the wall, noticing the mess of clothes all over the place. A few were mine—the ones he’d removed last night—but most were his.
Two pairs of jeans were on the floor in front of the hamper; his socks, boxers, pajamas, and shirts were strewn like confetti all over the place. I frowned at the mess, but decided to ignore it for now in favor of taking a quick shower.
Though I did mutter to myself as I waited for the water to heat up, “What is so hard about putting clothes in the hamper?”
Ten minutes later, I was showered and dressed and feeling like it was Christmas morning. I quickly walked to the living room and was about to call out to see if anyone was home, but I abruptly lost my ability to speak.
The apartment was a disaster.
A consummate disaster.
If mess-making were an Olympic sport, this mess would have won the bronze medal, maybe the silver.
Apparently, every toy Grace and Jack owned was scattered—again, confetti style—all over the living room. The cushions had been pulled from the couch. Grace must’ve been painting at the coffee table—which I never allowed—because the water jar for her paint brush had tipped over. Dirty brown water had spilled all over the carpet.
Breakfast plates and cups were where the sofa cushions had once been. Three boxes of miscellaneous cables and broken machinery—which, last I knew, were in storage downstairs—were spread out on the dining room table along with Greg’s soldering gun and the kids’ toolboxes.
A stack of clothes, clothes I’d just folded the day before yesterday, were piled in a disordered jumble by the entranceway.
I closed my eyes against the visually violent mess assault. I was afraid to check the kids’ rooms or the kitchen. I felt like crying.
I might have just slept for twelve hours, woken up refreshed and reinvigorated, but this chaos had effectively undone two and a half days of work. My knitting group was coming on Tuesday. I’d been so careful about keeping everything clean.
Pragmatic me knew, in the scheme of things, it was no big deal. It was just a mess. My friends wouldn’t care. I could clear the dishes, replace the cushions, and push the toys to one side of the room. I could strong-arm Grace and Jack into putting their belongings away tomorrow. I could refold the laundry while listening to an audiobook. The carpet would be stained . . . so what? It happens. Shit happens.
And yet, why was it necessary for shit to happen all over the apartment I’d just cleaned? Why couldn’t they have shit outside?
The front door opened and I shook myself, trying to figure out what I should do and who I should be. Defaulting to pragmatic me was easiest because it was where I lived most of the time. I was good at bottling my frustrations and disappointments, especially when they didn’t really matter.
Later, I would scream into my pillow. I would run thirteen point one miles while the kids were at school. I would go to the gym and beat the stuffing out of a punching bag. I would work out with one of the other black belts at my mixed-martial arts studio.
But, pragmatically speaking, right now—right before Greg left again for the airport and disappeared for the next four months—was not a good time to be angry. I endeavored to soothe the angry, feverish fire ants in my brain.
Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. . . and repeat seven thousand times.
Grace jogged into the apartment and made a beeline for the dining room table. She fished around in one of the boxes and pulled out two coils of copper. She was wearing a welding mask; it was pushed up and away from her face.
A welding mask . . . ?
“Grace?”
She stopped short, searching the apartment and grinning widely when she spotted me.
“Mom! We’re making something for you. Come see!” She turned on her heel and sprinted out the front door.
I picked my way through the toys, stepping over partially constructed Lego buildings and a discarded muffin wrapper surrounded by a halo of crumbs. Clearing the obstacle course, I left my apartment in my bare feet and found Grace propping open Professor Matt Simmons’s door. She waved me forward and I followed her through Matt’s apartment to the balcony.
What I saw then would forever be etched on my brain.
Everyone was wearing welding masks, Greg, Matt, and Jack. Which was a good thing, because Jack was welding.
That’s right, eight-year-old Jack was welding.
Granted, Greg was helping.
But Jack was welding.
It was too much. I lost my mind.
“Stay here,” I ordered. I grabbed Grace’s mask and marched to the balcony door.
I knocked on the glass, loud enough for them to hear. Matt turned his masked face to the door and waved cheerfully. I glowered at him. He dropped his hand. He moved to Greg and tapped him on the shoulder, then pointed at me. The welding gun turned off, Greg glanced over his shoulder. He waved. I glowered. He dropped his hand.
I watched his chest rise and fall with a bracing breath—that’s how I knew he knew I was mad—and he leaned forward, saying something to Jack. Jack nodded and leaned back in his chair, placing his hands on his knees.
Greg stood, lifting the mask and pulling the gloves he was wearing from his hands. He gave me a tight and contrite smile as he approached the door.
“Grace,” I said, holding my husband’s gaze while I spoke to my daughter, “go out on the balcony with your brother. And under no circumstances is anyone allowed to weld.”
“Okay, Mommy.”
I took two steps back and Grace walked swiftly by me as soon as Greg opened the balcony door. He waited for her to pass before entering. When the door was firmly shut, we stared at each other for a long moment. I didn’t speak, not yet, because my urge was to place him in a chokehold.
He lifted his hands and said, “I was hoping to be finished before you woke up. It’s taking longer than I expected.”
I still couldn’t speak because I was expecting the first words out of his mouth to be, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have allowed our eight-year-old son or our five-year-old daughter to weld. I realize it’s very dangerous and their wellbeing is important to me. Please forgive me.
Since that’s not what he said, I still wanted to place him in a chokehold.
He scratched the back of his neck and shifted on his feet, watching me cautiously like I might explode. Hesitantly he asked, “Is this about the mess?”
“The mess?” My question was shrill; it reminded me of a police siren.
Was that my voice?
“In the living room. We were in a hurry, but I did clean the kitchen.”
“You cleaned the kitchen?” That can’t be my voice. I don’t sound like that.
“We made muffins this morning. I saved you some, they’re on the counter.”
The resident fire ants in my brain were trying to singe their way out of my brain using a tiny ant-sized blowtorch.
“
No, Greg. This isn’t about the mess. It’s about our eight-year-old son and our five-year-old daughter, who are now apparently proficient welders.”
“I wouldn’t call them proficient, at least not at TIG welding. It’s safer in some ways, but it’s more complex on the whole.”
“Greg—”
“And besides, if we don’t teach them about welding at home, they’ll just learn about it on the streets.” He grinned. He was grinning at me.
Fire ants.
In my brain.
With a TIG welder.
Matt opened the door; he, Jack, and Grace filed in. My eyes darted to the trio and I took a calming breath.
“It’s not snowing, but it’s cold outside. I thought I’d make the kids some hot chocolate,” Matt explained, his smile apologetic.
Jack asked, “Are you guys arguing?”
“Yes,” I said.
“No,” Greg said.
We stared at each other, Greg’s grin morphing into a wane grimace.
Grace came to my side and wrapped her small hand around my index finger. I glanced down at her just before her little voice declared, “That sounds like something Hitler would say.”
Matt gasped. Greg barked a laugh. Jack, unfazed, walked over to the piano. And I closed my eyes, reminding myself to keep my voice level and calm.
“Are you angry, Mommy?”
I nodded my head. “Yes, Gracie. I’m angry.”
“I’m sorry.”
I pressed my lips together and lifted my eyelids, issuing my daughter a small smile. “Thank you, Grace. I’m not angry with you, but when we get home I need you to pick up your toys, okay?”
“Okay,” she said, then gave me a kiss on my hand.
“Can I get anyone something to drink? Hot chocolate? Vodka perhaps?” Matt offered.
“No vodka for me,” Jack said, sliding onto the piano bench.
“Come with me, Gracie. Maybe you can find some marshmallows while I boil the water.” Matt disappeared into his kitchen like Al-Qaeda was on his heels, likely relieved to escape, and Grace skipped after him.
“Darling,” Greg closed the distance between us, taking my hand in both of his and kissing my palm. “I’m sorry about the mess in the apartment. I can go back right now and clean it up. But the kids and I wanted to make you something, and the Professor had a TIG welder.”
I felt myself soften. “Are you and Matty best friends now?”
“I’m not going to braid his hair anytime soon.” Greg’s eyes moved to the right and he tilted his head back and forth in a small considering movement. It was funny. I softened a little more.
Seeing my temper disarm, Greg lowered his voice. “Listen, Jack isn’t too young to weld, not when I’m sitting right next to him. I wouldn’t do anything to endanger . . . to endanger . . .” Greg frowned and turned, glancing over his shoulder to where Jack sat at the piano, playing Tchaikovsky.
Playing Tchaikovsky. . . !!!
“What the hell?”
“Oh my gosh!” I squeezed Greg’s hand, bringing his attention back to me. He looked utterly confused. “I forgot to tell you.”
“Forgot to tell me?”
“About Jack. About his piano playing.”
Greg studied me for a long moment, obviously trying to piece everything together on his own. “Has he been taking lessons?”
“No. He’s playing by ear.”
“By ear?”
“Yes. I just found out, two days ago.”
I quickly told the story of discovering Jack’s aptitude for music. Greg stared at me, disbelieving as I related the facts.
Greg crossed his arms over his chest, struggling to understand. “He was playing at the dance studio?”
I nodded, feeling perplexed and overwhelmed all over again. “Yes.”
“Well, what did you do about it? I mean, what are we going to do? This is serious, right?” Greg shifted his stare to Jack, who was still playing.
“She went to the doctor,” Matt said, entering the conversation with a non sequitur.
“What?” Greg’s gaze flickered between Matt and me. “You took Jack to the doctor?”
“No. Fiona went to the doctor. For her headaches. But the MRI machine was broken, so . . . That’s what you’re talking about, right?” Matt placed a cup of hot chocolate in my hands, adding, “I did put some alcohol in your cup, Fiona. But I was out of vodka. I hope you like rum.”
***
“When were you going to tell me about the headaches?”
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
Greg was pacing back and forth in our bedroom, his hands on his hips, more furious than I’d ever seen him.
“You didn’t want to . . .” He shook his head, his eyes skimming over my form like I was unknown to him, a stranger who’d suddenly appeared before him. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”
Grace and Jack were still next door. As soon as Matt had mentioned the headaches, Greg grew very quiet and still. He looked at me. I flinched because I knew my husband and I saw that he was enraged. With a tremendously cold voice, he asked Matt to watch the kids. He grabbed me by my hand and marched me back to our apartment, and into our bedroom. He paced back and forth, obviously panicking, for several untenable moments.
And here we were.
I was sitting on the bed, hoping he’d sit next to me. I reached out to him and he recoiled, moving out of my reach, and continued his pacing. My heart lodged in my throat and my stomach dropped to my feet.
“Will you sit next to me please?” Despite my distress, I endeavored to keep my tone calm and reasonable.
“No!” he thundered. His tone was neither calm nor reasonable, and the single word made me jump.
“I’m sure it’s no big deal.”
“Do you not remember having a brain tumor?”
I ignored his heated question, instead opting to impassively explain. “I haven’t been sleeping well, Grace is having bad dreams—nothing I can’t handle—and I’m sure that’s it. Once she starts sleeping through the night again, everything will go back to normal.”
He stopped his pacing. Instead, he glared at me like I was a terrorist. “Nothing you can’t handle?”
“That’s right.” I nodded once.
“So, you don’t need me.”
“Right. I don’t need you,” I assured him automatically, hoping he would calm down.
Greg blinked once, his jaw ticked, and I didn’t miss the renewed inferno blazing behind his eyes. He said nothing, but I couldn’t help feeling like I’d done something wrong. A heavy ache settled in my chest, peppered with heavy helpings of guilt and doubt. We stared at each other across the ocean of our king-sized bed, both frowning.
Perhaps I should have told him about the headaches . . . but to what purpose?
He’d been thousands of miles away on a different continent. He couldn’t do anything from an oil rig in South Africa.
We’d never argued about the nature his work, about his leaving. After Jack was born and Greg’s year-long desk assignment was over, we’d discussed his job and the logistics of his absence like two rational adults. We’d made a pros and cons list, and money had been the deciding factor, on paper.
But in real life—so, not the cold, logical facts written in list format—Greg loved his job. He loved the important work only he could accomplish on-site. He made a difference to the world. The techniques he taught saved lives, and not just human lives. He was a pioneer. His methods for oil extraction were making a difference in the global environment. His ability to ingratiate himself to local governments and convince them to do the right thing was invaluable.
I’d decided years ago I wanted children, and I’d recognized at the time I’d likely be raising them mostly by myself. I’d made the choice and accepted the consequences. I was on my own.
I didn’t like the shuttered quality to his expression, nor the withdrawn, measured way he glanced around the bedroom. I debated what to do, what action to take, what I could
say to make things better. In the end I decided to give in to the impulse to apologize.
“I’m sorry.”
His gaze flickered to mine and he held very still. “For what?”
“I’m sorry if you’re upset about the headaches. But if I thought they were important, then I would have told you.”
“And Grace’s nightmares? Are you sorry you didn’t tell me about those?”
I searched the ceiling, my bedside lamp, table, and the pillows on the bed. I didn’t know how to answer him, so my thoughts tumbled from my lips. “Grace has nightmares. Sometimes Jack has nightmares. Am I supposed to tell you every time one of the kids has a nightmare? Or scrapes their elbow? Or gets a paper cut?”
“What about Jack’s sudden aptitude for music? Or were you going to surprise me when he turns eighteen and is playing at Carnegie Hall?”
I pointed a wagging index finger in his general direction. “That’s not fair. I just found out about Jack playing the piano two days ago. He didn’t say a word to me. And when would you and I have had a chance to discuss it?”
Greg’s cloud of unhappiness darkened at my words. “You found out two days ago that our son is likely a musical prodigy. That’s a big deal, Fiona. That’s not a paper cut. He can play complicated pieces without actually knowing how to read music, after hearing it a few times. And I found out ten minutes ago. Do you not see anything wrong with that disparity?”
“What do you want me to do? Send you psychic messages?”
“Yes, via the magical internets. Send me an email, how about that?”
Swelling anger and bitterness twisted in my stomach and burned my throat. I longed to remind him I was doing everything on my own, that I was doing the best I could. Then he comes home and can’t even be bothered to put his laundry in the hamper. He didn’t have a right to real-time updates on, or arbitrary opinions about children he wasn’t actively raising.
But I didn’t remind him.
Greg was leaving in less than five minutes. He likely wouldn’t be back in Chicago for three or four months, during which I would take the kids camping with Alex and Drew. Alone. I would drive Jack to soccer practice and cheer him on during his games. Alone. I would go to Grace’s dance recital and applaud when she took a bow. Alone. I would help them with their homework, give them baths, shuttle them to doctors’ appointments, play-dates, and birthday parties.
