by Mary Monroe
* * *
We had agreed to have four children, and we wanted them to be close in age. Lisa was born two years after we got married. Denise arrived two years later. Mark entered our lives the following year.
After several years of trying, we had not been able to produce our fourth child. When I complained to my mother about only having three, she chastised me the way only a woman with Southern roots and eleven siblings could: “Girl, what’s wrong with you? It’s going to be hard enough raising three, especially these days when kids are doing everything from shooting up schools and malls to killing their own parents. We were lucky—you were so easygoing, you practically raised yourself. But I’m still glad we had only one child. . . .”
Some of my friends never wanted to be parents. The ones who did had already reached their goal. Debbie Reed, the only one of my friends who liked to shop as much as I did, had three of her own, and adopted two more. Camille had wanted only two. When she gave birth to twins the first time around, she had her tubes tied.
I was disappointed that I had not been blessed with a fourth child. But I was grateful for the three I had, and all the rest of my blessings.
CHAPTER 2
December 2, 2016
It was hard to believe that twenty-five years ago today, I had almost lost my life in a hit-and-run accident. My physical injuries had healed completely. But I hadn’t been able to remove the mental anguish from my memory bank. It was especially bad on the anniversary. I cringed whenever I drove near the scene of the accident. Other than that, my life was fairly normal. I was in excellent health, and still the same size eight I’d been when I got married, so I looked much younger than a woman who’d turn forty-five in a little over three weeks on Christmas Day.
Getting older didn’t bother me as much as the gloom that consumed me every year on the anniversary of my accident. Other than that, and occasional boredom, I was fine. I didn’t need to see a therapist. But I wished that I had an unbiased friend to talk to, who would be more understanding and sympathetic than Eric and everybody else, and would give me some advice I could use.
I had slept only a few hours last night. When the alarm went off at seven a.m., I had already been awake for two hours.
“What’s bothering you, baby? You’ve been acting strange for the past couple of days,” Eric said as he woke up.
I sat up and gave him the most apologetic look I could manage. “Don’t you remember what today is?”
He gave me a puzzled look and hunched his shoulders. Then he glanced at the calendar on the wall facing our bed. “Today is the second of December. So what?”
“I almost died twenty-five years ago today,” I said in a feeble tone.
Eric blinked and raked his fingers through his hair. “I keep forgetting.”
“I wish I could. Even though it made me change my life in so many positive ways, I wish it had never happened. I . . . I thought I’d be over it by now.”
“You should be. I fell out of a tree when I was thirteen and broke my leg in two places. I don’t even remember what day it happened, and I never think about it unless somebody brings it up. If you’re having such a hard time moving on with your life, maybe you should think about seeing a professional.”
My jaw dropped and I gave Eric the most incredulous look I could manage. “A professional what?”
“A therapist or whoever it is people like you need to talk to when they can’t move on with their lives. I don’t want you to keep getting depressed and stressed out over something that happened a quarter of a century ago.”
I laughed. “If I go see a professional, will you go see one too?”
“Me? Why?”
“Because you must be crazy if you think I am!” We both laughed this time. And then I got serious again. “Honestly, Eric, I don’t need to talk to a professional. It’s not that serious. Believe it or not, I have moved on with my life. I’m very happy. One of the reasons is because I keep myself busy so I won’t spend too much time thinking about the accident.”
“And that’s another thing. You are too busy. The day I met you, you already had a mighty big load on your plate. But that plate and the load on it have grown even bigger over the years. Baby, I don’t like it when you spread yourself too thin. With all those parties you host throughout the year, I’m surprised you haven’t run out of steam and keeled over by now.”
“I thought you loved my parties. People are still talking about the Christmas you dressed as Santa and the pillow slid so far to one side, you looked like a lopsided camel.” I giggled, pinching the side of his arm.
“I do love your parties, and please don’t remind me about that embarrassing episode. But it’s time for you to slow down and try not to do so many things.”
I rolled my eyes. “Now if you’re going to tell me to give up my volunteer work at the soup kitchen, don’t bother. You know how important that is to me. It keeps me from getting bored.”
“You’re bored?”
“Well, every now and then.”
“Bored or not, it wouldn’t hurt for you not to help feed the homeless for a few weeks. I don’t want you to keep burning yourself out when you’re already doing so much. I do a lot for the unfortunate myself, but within reason. Besides, you’re . . . um . . . you’re not a spring chicken anymore, Beatrice.”
“Tell me about it.” I groaned as I rubbed my aching knee.
“And it wouldn’t hurt you to skip hosting a big Christmas party this year.”
I bit my bottom lip and stared off into space for a few seconds. “I like doing for other people, Eric. Making them happy makes me happy. You knew that before we got married. Don’t ask me this late in the game to find something else to do with my time.”
“Baby, I’m only telling you these things for your own good. If you don’t want to talk to a therapist, the next time you go see your gynecologist, ask him to refer you to a doctor who can give you something for your depression.”
I never got depressed enough to be concerned about it. I was more concerned about being bored. Eric had become so dull and predictable since our wedding almost twenty-three years ago, I wondered if a separation would help restore our ho-hum marriage....
He interrupted my thoughts and asked in a loud voice, “Don’t you have an appointment coming up soon to see Dr. Lopez?”
“Yeah,” I muttered. “The twenty-second of this month.”
“Would you like for me to take off work and go with you for moral support?”
“No, that’s all right. I’m never with him longer than thirty or thirty-five minutes, and sometimes not even that long. I’m going to work that day and take off only enough time in the afternoon to go get my annual checkup. Afterward, I’ll go back to work so I can help serve dinner.”
“Why don’t you take off the whole day, or at least the rest of that afternoon?”
“Eric, do you know how many homeless people need to be fed this time of year? The folks who run Sister Cecile’s soup kitchen need all the help they can get, and I’ve never let them down. Besides, I’m taking off this morning so I can go shopping and have an early lunch with Mama before I go in. I still have half the people on my Christmas list to buy gifts for.” I didn’t wait for him to respond. I scrambled out of bed and scurried to the adjacent bathroom. When I got inside, I had a hot flash. It was the second one in three days. Before that, I hadn’t had any since they’d begun back in October. When my period didn’t come that month or last month and I’d experienced night sweats a few times, I presumed that I’d started menopause. Getting older didn’t bother me. My main concern was getting better, and each new day provided me with that opportunity.
CHAPTER 3
While Eric was taking his shower, I got dressed and then headed downstairs. When I got to the bottom of the staircase, I heard all three of my kids yip-yapping like terriers, a few feet away in the kitchen.
Our eldest, twenty-year old Lisa, shared an apartment with her boyfriend, Anwar. A few months ago, she had gr
aduated from Berkeley with a degree in business administration. Two weeks later, she landed an entry-level position helping manage daily operations and planning the use of human resources at a large engineering firm in Oakland. I liked Anwar, but I was concerned about the fact that he had flunked out of college and was now working as a waiter. However, whenever the subject came up, Lisa and Eric, and especially Mama, reminded me that the man Lisa was in love with—and hoped to marry someday—was the only son of an Egyptian billionaire. Anwar had told Lisa that his father was going to buy him a restaurant of his own. But he wasn’t sure where and what type he wanted yet. He’d assured Lisa that he wouldn’t finalize anything without her input. That kept her happy and helped ease my concern.
One week after Mark graduated from Berkeley High last June, he took a sales job at a hardware store. The same day he got his first paycheck, he moved into a loft with his latest girlfriend, Nita, and two other young people. He wanted to work a couple of years, do a stint in the military, and then resume his education.
Denise had always wanted to be a chef. Three days ago, she moved to San Francisco to live with my parents in a lovely house that they had purchased last year to be closer to their church. Denise was attending one of the most prestigious culinary schools in the state. And since it was located only a couple of miles from my parents’ new residence, she wouldn’t have to commute. The kids had come to the house last night to help Denise load up the rest of her things into the U-Haul she’d rented. At the last minute, they had decided to spend the night.
As soon as they saw me standing in the kitchen doorway with a curious look on my face, they stopped talking.
“Morning, Mom. I made coffee,” eighteen-year-old Mark said, rising from the breakfast table. Denise, who had just turned nineteen a month ago, didn’t even look up. You would have thought that the plate of grits and grilled ham in front of her was gold.
“No thanks.” I walked up to Lisa and stood in front of her. “Do you still want to go shopping with me and your grandmother this morning, or do you have to get permission from what’s his name?” I chuckled.
“No and no,” she answered, shaking her head. “We’re having an important staff meeting at work this morning and I need to be there. And ‘what’s his name’ is called Anwar.”
“We can go by that new furniture store on Shattuck. You and Anwar still need quite a few things for your place,” I went on. “Or do you like sleeping on a couch bed?” I stifled a snicker, but Mark and Denise guffawed like hyenas.
Lisa rolled her eyes, but there was an amused expression on her face. She rarely took me seriously. “Mama, I’ll let you know when I’m ready to go shopping with you.”
“Well, I hope it’s before any of Anwar’s relatives come for a visit. They would be horrified to find out he sleeps on a couch bed.” We all laughed, even Lisa.
Denise cleared her throat to get my attention. “Mama, I could use a few new items for my room. Everything Grandma and Grandpa own is older than I am, and—”
Mark cut her off. “Mama, are you sure you don’t want me to pour you a cup of coffee?”
“I’m sure. You always make it too strong,” I complained.
All three of my children had Eric’s butterscotch skin, wide-set black eyes, and athletic build. And they had my delicate features and thick black hair. They didn’t need to waste money and time trying to look more attractive, but they did. Especially Denise. I turned to her and shook my head. “Why do you have to coat your face with all that makeup? You look like Ronald McDonald.” We all laughed again. I said some things that other people might have considered harsh, but my kids took them in stride. They even complimented me on my wisecracking sense of humor.
“You don’t have any room to talk. Grandma showed me some of the hideous pictures you took way back when. Besides, this is the same makeup I’ve been wearing since middle school,” Denise said with a pout.
“Sugar, don’t pay any attention to me. I think you’re beautiful with or without makeup.” I gave her a wink and a smile and turned back to Mark. “Son, don’t forget to bring me your dirty laundry when you get off work today so I can take care of it this weekend.”
“Mama, please. I keep telling you that I’m old enough to wash my own clothes.”
I shook my head and gave him a woeful look. “Bless your heart, baby. You’re old enough to do it, but you don’t know how to do it right. You ought to know better than to wash white and colored clothing together. And the last time you did your laundry, you didn’t even use enough detergent. Leave that chore to me.”
“Mama, slow down. You do enough for us already. And besides, we are on our own now,” Denise tossed in. “When are you going to start treating us like adults?”
“When you start acting like adults.” I didn’t like the rolling eyes and exasperated sighs I witnessed, so I decided to backpedal. “I always have to act like a mother,” I said with a dismissive wave and a snicker. I didn’t want the conversation to slide into something too tense, so I made a couple of casual comments about ho-hum subjects even I wasn’t interested in: the weather, celebrity gossip, and even the size of the new car one of our neighbors had recently purchased. When I saw how bored everybody looked, I slunk back out of the kitchen.
The kids didn’t know that I had ducked off to the side of the doorway and was still within earshot when Mark started in a low tone. “Poor Mama. Her antics are getting out of control. Last week, she came to my pad while nobody was home. She rearranged my bedroom furniture, put room deodorizers all over the place, and set a large framed picture on my nightstand of Jesus walking on water. I feel so sorry for her because it’s obvious that she thinks her life is empty now. But she’s making the rest of us suffer for it too.”
“Poor Daddy. He has to live with her twenty-four/ seven,” Denise added. “He’s the one I feel sorry for.”
“There is no telling how she treats those poor homeless people at that soup kitchen. They’re the ones we need to feel sorry for. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that she even spoon-feeds a few,” Lisa eased in. “Her acting like Mother Goose wasn’t so bad when we were younger. If she doesn’t give me more space and stop breathing down my neck, I’m going to lose what’s left of my mind. She’s really cramping our style. But she’s the best mom anybody could hope for. . . .”
It saddened me to hear that I “cramped” my children’s style and had an “empty life,” which couldn’t have been further from the truth with all the things I had going on. But just knowing that I was also the “best mom anybody could hope for” made me burst with pride. The bottom line was, I couldn’t help myself. I planned to cling to my kids for as long as I could. Lisa and Mark had visited only a few times since they’d moved out, but I barged into their residences at least once a week to make sure they were doing okay. I had made them give me keys in case there was an emergency. When they found out I’d been letting myself in when they weren’t home, they balked. In the end, they let me keep the keys anyway. Lisa was doing just fine. She kept her apartment as neat as a pin and didn’t need my housekeeping assistance the way Mark did. Denise’s move was so recent, I hadn’t had time to pay her a visit yet. Since she lived with my parents now, I already had a key to her place. But I wouldn’t have to pay her too many visits because Mama and Daddy would keep a hawk’s eye on her.
* * *
Within fifteen minutes after the conversation in the kitchen, all three of the kids had left, and so had Eric. I made a fresh pot of coffee and drank two cups before I called up Mama to confirm our shopping date. As busy as I kept myself, I always made time to spend a few hours each week with my parents.
Mama had retired from her position as an insurance claims adjuster last year in January, and Daddy ended his career as a car wash manager a month later. Unfortunately, retirement was not what they had expected. Mama’s dream had been to spend the rest of her life kicking back watching daytime TV, shopping, and doing things with some of her elderly female friends. Her dream turne
d into a nightmare when Daddy retired. Within the first few days, he had her climbing the walls. She had to wait on him hand and foot and listen to him whine all day about everything from his bunions to the economy.
“If I’d known that your daddy was going to pester me nonstop when he retired, I would have worked another five or six years,” she told me during our telephone conversation last night.
“All you need to do is start doing more things he hates,” I’d suggested. “Like shopping. That’s one thing he will never enjoy doing as much as you and I.”
My big mouth was the reason I had gotten myself locked into a trip to the mall with Mama this morning.
CHAPTER 4
By eleven a.m., after Mama and I had purchased various knickknacks from three different stores, we decided to stop and grab a bite to eat. We plopped down into a booth and ordered pasta dishes at Olive Garden. Without warning, she narrowed her eyes and began in a steely tone, “Bea, I know it’s none of my business, but are you and Eric having problems?”
My mouth dropped open and my eyes got big. “Huh? No, we’re not having problems! Everything is perfect!” I snapped. And then I laughed because her question was so outlandish.
Mama cleared her throat and gave me a guarded look. My mother was a heavyset woman, but she was still attractive. Every hair on her head was gray, and she refused to dye it. But it was always clean and neatly styled. She wore just enough makeup to enhance her large brown eyes and full lips. She got giddy when people told her she looked more like my sister than my mother. “Well, is something going on with you?” she asked, hinting at something unsavory.
I gulped so hard, I almost choked on some air. “I wouldn’t look sideways at another man, and you know it! Why are you asking me these outlandish questions?” The way Mama was staring at me with such a testy look on her face, I was glad I had ordered a glass of wine. I was going to need a buzz to get through her interrogation.
