My Gran’s favorite topics are food and God. It just so happens that the supermarket chain that we both frequent is in New Jersey and Pennsylvania. From Philadelphia she tells me what to buy for my family.
“You’re right,” I oblige.
“How’s Preston?”
“Fine.” She drops quiet. I can sense her stiff, arthritic fingers struggle with turning the circular as her right eye squints hard. A chunky, black Magic Marker is pinched between her pointer and thumb. When Gran spies something for the church she’ll check it, my aunt Crystal’s food gets an X, but for me, there are loopy rings safely enclosing what she deems fit.
“Oh, Faye, five-pound bag of those red potatoes you like only two dollars. Cook that with some forty-nine-cent cabbage and you got a meal.”
Liv slithers her way into the kitchen. She’s small for ten months and instead of crawling, she slides, one arm commando-style across the room and grabs my ankle. I kiss her cheek and then put her in her high chair and tie on her bib. She gnaws on a Baby Mum-Mum rice biscuit and watches while I pull a bag of whiting from the freezer. I’ll fry that tonight with some potatoes and string beans.
“Oh, I remember what I wanted. The nursing home called. Said your mother would be doing a lot better if she had some visitors. You know I can’t get all the way out to no Valley Forge. Not less Mr. Scooter takes me, and his hip is bad so I don’t wanna call on him too much.”
“Let Crystal take you.” I wipe at the syrup spot on the kitchen table.
“I ain’t getting in the car with Crystal. Is you crazy? ’Sides, that’s your mother laying up there. You need to go see her. How long has it been?”
I can’t even remember.
“That’s what I thought,” she snaps, as if I’ve said it out loud.
My other line clicks.
“Gran, I have to take this call. Let me talk to Preston and I’ll get back to you.”
“Don’t take too long.” She hangs up the telephone. Gran never says good-bye.
“Hello.”
Nothing.
“Hello?”
Breathing.
The line goes dead.
It’s just as well. I only have an hour to get out of the house. Liv has her Mommy and Me music class at eleven, which is the highlight of my week. The pile of laundry waiting for me to fold at the foot of my bed gets ignored. The baby’s ExerSaucer fits in the opening of the bathroom door. I’ve become accustomed to showering with a breeze.
* * *
The class is a fifteen-minute drive. Liv babbles while I listen to the local NPR station, absorbing my dose of current events and news. As I pull into the parking lot, I can see that it’s chaotic. The four-room building where the music classes are held also hosts a kids’ art studio and preschool movement and yoga. Children’s classes in the suburbs are big business. Every mother wants to make sure little Honey-bunch has every advantage and is ahead of the curve, so we bump ourselves until battered, piling on classes in music, Mandarin, art, swim, and Gymboree before our little people can even walk and talk.
As I unlatch Liv’s car seat, I ponder over how I, Felicia Lyons, with a BFA in Theater Arts, a Super Bowl commercial, and various plays notched into my sash, how that girl ended up a stay-at-home-mom-domestic-chauffeur-short-order-cook. Maybe it was decided for me when “The Incident” occurred, the one that took my mother away.
My Gran, bless her heart, did the best she could but there is nothing like your mother. The woman whose skin smells like home, whose touch is filled with familiarity, and whose heart has your face smack at the center. This is the woman I am for my children. Front, center, and available, with their needs motivating my every move. A full-time job would distract me from being the type of mother you see on television, the one with all the white-picket-fence trimming. Nothing like how I was raised, in a North Philly box with food stamps and that disgusting welfare cheese. Gran was downtown taking care of Mr. Orbach’s children, while I was latchkey with Crystal, my aunt who was only five years my senior and far more interested in fooling around with big Derell in the basement than watching me. I showed a brave face every day, but the lump of loneliness for my mother lingered in the crevices of my soul, and even though I was very young, I vowed that my children would never meet the pain of motherlessness. So here I am. Even during those burned-out times when I don’t want to be available. I’ll tap myself into oblivion and take a time-out at the movies with baby-size bottles of wine to bring myself back to center and focus. But I’m here.
Once inside we remove our shoes and take our spot on the colorful rug. The wide and open classroom is painted sunshine yellow. In orange letters, scripted on the wall is this: “Music is a moral law. It gives soul to the Universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, and charm and gaiety to life and to everything. Plato.”
In this circle, all of the mothers look the same. Washed-out skin, worn-out eyes, wearing wrinkled clothes that they found in a pile on the floor. Bone tired. Starved for conversations that don’t include cooing. I must admit to feeling a bit superior because I combed my hair and I’m wearing my cute capris, so I do a lot of smiling.
“Hi, morning,” I nod to Melanie. She’s a mom friend. Her kids go to the same preschool as Rory and Twyla, so I know her well. Melanie is pregnant with her fourth child.
“How are you feeling, honey?”
“It was hard this morning but I made it.” Melanie grins and rubs her baby bump. Her skin is a mousy olive and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her without a limp ponytail.
I lower myself next to her and pat her knee in agreement.
We all say we come to these types of classes for the kids, but we really come to find our tribe. A mom we can talk to while our real friends are off at work. Someone to share coffee with and chat about how little Junior wouldn’t go to bed, a person besides our spouse who understands the lingo and knows what the witching hour means. It’s for the socialization. The getting out of the house before it consumes us. The need to have an adult connection, even if it’s over “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”
Ally, the music teacher, walks in and places on the floor a plastic container with eggs that shake when the kids rattle them. Liv slithers to the center and grabs the blue one. Into her mouth it goes and I cringe.
“Don’t worry, I just wiped them down a second ago,” Ally reassures me. We know each other well. I’ve been taking this class since Rory was ten months old and I’m arguably the only mom in the room who has been through all six CDs more than once, and have committed every song, intonation, hum to memory.
Liv is the only child of color in the room. I am the only African American mother. The rest of the browns are nannies. I’m polite to the working women because we come from the same place and I don’t want them to think I’m uppity. But I’m never overly talkative. It’s a delicate balance but I’ve become used to that part, too.
Ally picks up her guitar and we all chime in on the Hello song.
“Now remember moms and caregivers, it’s important to sing out and dance to the fullest because your children learn from watching you,” Ally encourages.
We go through a few warm-up songs and then Ally walks over to the closet and comes back with a box.
“Scarves.” She dumps all sorts with varying textures, colors, and patterns, and the kids crawl and run over to pick one. I hang back eyeing the purple, and to my delight I get it. We dance to a Greek wedding song and Liv gazes at how much fun I’m having and wants up. So we dance, we fly through the air, twirl around the room, float through the sky caught up in our lavender world and I am ecstatically breathless and happy. So is Liv. I am a good mother.
* * *
“You ready for our walk?” I ask Melanie outside, in the parking lot. She and I walk after music class for a little exercise. It gives the children some fresh air and us a chance to talk before we are confined in the house for nap time.
“Mind if we skip it today? I didn’t sleep at all last night.” She puts Jeremy, h
er thirteen-month-old, up on her hip. “Between my sciatica and Bob’s snoring, I tossed and turned all night.”
“You should make him sleep in the den,” I joked.
“I wish.”
“How many weeks left?” I rub her belly.
“Five, but who knows? I was two weeks early with him.” She ruffles her son’s hair. He has the same dirty brown hair as her, and when he realizes we are watching him he sticks his thumb in his mouth.
“Take a nap with Jeremy today. That’s what I used to do with Twyla when I was pregnant with her,” I say, squeezing Liv against my breasts.
“I do have some fall fling business to catch you up on. Are you picking up today?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, we’ll chat then.”
The walk would have been good for Liv but I could use the extra time to fold the laundry. I play the class CD for Liv on the drive home to keep her awake. I need to feed her before she naps or she won’t sleep long. I sing and make faces at her through the rearview mirror and it works. As soon as we walk in the house she wants her food and I bounce her around on my hip while I warm her organic sweet potatoes and chicken. The telephone rings.
“Shh, shh,” I say, placing Liv in the high chair with two crackers.
“Hello.”
“Felicia Lyons?”
“Yes.”
“This is Ashley from SEM&M.”
My pulse quickens. My agent. I make my voice cheery while gliding Liv’s chair with my foot to keep her from crying out.
“Yes. Hello, Ashley. How have you been?”
“Oh, fine. Summer has been slow so I’ve managed to do a few fun things.”
“Are you still taking surfing lessons?”
“Yeah, just got back from Hawaii last week. It was incredible.”
“Wow, Hawaii is on my list.”
“It’s beautiful. I had a great time.”
“Wonderful.” I pause.
“I have a go-see for you tomorrow at eleven A.M. for Samsung Galaxy. Is your e-mail still the same?”
“Yes, nothing has changed.”
“Great, let me give you the address.”
“Hang on while I grab a pen.”
Liv has lost interest in the now-soggy crackers and I see in her face that she is about to let me have it. I mute the phone, snatch her out of the seat, and sway her in my arms while I open the kitchen drawer and search for a pen. I can’t ever find a pen in this damn house. Desperate, I take the information down with a green crayon.
“So I’ll e-mail the copy right over. Good luck.”
“Thanks so much for calling, Ashley. Please give everyone my best.”
When I hang up the phone, I scream. Liv starts crying.
“I’m sorry.” I soothe. But I’m light on my toes. First Monroe with the Dames’ fund-raiser and now an audition. Things are looking up.
Liv looks at me with those eyes that say Mommy, pay attention, so I sit and feed her. Once she’s taken care of and down for her nap, I send Preston a text.
Audition tomorrow at 11:00. Can you work from home with Liv?
Asking Preston is a long shot. So much to do. I have to get ready for my audition tomorrow and start writing my monologue for the Dames. Preston’s text comes through.
Sorry, Foxy, but I can’t. Back-to-back meetings tomorrow.
For some reason I’m not overly concerned. I’ll ask one of the mom friends on the playground today at pickup. We interchange children and fill in where necessary for each other. I have at least two possibilities; I’m sure one will say yes. I twirl and head down to my little office in the basement to print the e-mail. I have an hour and a half to look over the audition copy before it’s time to pick up the kids.
The commercial is about a woman who’s late for work. When she pulls out her cell phone to call her boss, it falls into a puddle. She picks it up and wipes it down with her fancy scarf, and when she puts it to her ear, it works. She gets through to her boss and explains with a sigh of relief.
I can do this. I go over the copy, marking my spots, and as I move through my living room, my inner actress pours through. Damn, I’ve missed her.
FIVE
The Little Red School
I wander down the driveway of the Little Red School a few minutes before dismissal. Liv is still asleep, so I carry her in the detachable car seat. The year-round nursery through kindergarten school is in the town of South Mountain, which was chosen in New York magazine as one of the best places for commuters in northern New Jersey to live, play, and raise kids. The article said, and I quote, that it was “the type of town where the mice bring you breakfast and birds chirp lullabies to the children at night.” It’s where I would give my right pinky toe to live, but Preston won’t cosign on the taxes, so I live out my fantasy through the children’s nursery and activities.
The school is in what used to be a farmhouse and has and old-time-before-life-became-complicated feel. The education is Montessori in style, which I thought was a must for our future Barack and Michelle Obamas. I round the corner and see Melanie from music class, and Erica Prince, standing at the gate, watching their children play. I pick up the pace. Before I can say hello, Rory comes running like a dutiful puppy and laps me with kisses and hugs. He just turned six and will be going to a new school in the fall.
“I missed you all day,” he says, and then runs in the opposite direction. The school yard is huge with a pint-size jungle gym, playhouse, seesaw, sandbox (which I hate and I’m sure every other black mother who has a daughter with a thick head of hair hates), and bridge.
“Hey there.” Melanie greets me with a smile.
“Where’s Jeremy? Did you get some rest?”
“Yes, I slept for two hours and then Bob surprised me by coming in early so I left Jeremy with him.”
“You look cute.” Erica looks me over.
“Thanks.”
Erica has a baby boy the same age as Liv but her son is twice Liv’s size. She has him in a front carrier and rocks on her heels. She’s a pretty woman with a short, reddish natural, and light freckles on her cheeks and nose. New York City cute with a suburban flair. She quit her job in publishing after her oldest son, Coltrane, was born, and started a public relations business. Her husband is a musician and travels often, but when he’s home they throw the best parties. I’m delighted every time our names appear on their guest list.
“How come you never put Liv in the front carrier?” Erica looks down at the baby carrier that I’m struggling with.
“She was asleep when we left the house and I didn’t want to wake her.”
“It’s so hard on the baby. Being juggled around on the other kids’ schedule.” Melanie shifts on her feet.
“We were just talking about the fall fling,” Erica informs me. “The day will run from one to five P.M., with activities and crafts for the whole family. Warren is going to do a music moment sing-along with the kids at around three P.M.”
“Are you sure he’s going to be able to make it?” Melanie is the president of the parent organization and takes her job as seriously as if she were the mayor of South Mountain. Warren was supposed to play at the spring fling, and Melanie sold a slew of tickets based on his celebrity. But Warren got stuck in Los Angeles and couldn’t get back in time. Melanie hasn’t gotten over it. It was like her date stood her up for senior prom. “Last time we had to refund tickets and—”
“He’ll be there,” Erica cuts Melanie off.
“What do you need me to do?” I ask, more to break the tension than anything.
“Will you be at the meeting next week?” Melanie asks.
“Yes.”
“Perfect. We will break up all the responsibilities then.” Coltrane runs over to Erica, crying.
“I guess that’s my cue.” She takes her son by the hand.
“Rory, tell Twyla to come on,” I call.
Melanie goes searching for her twins.
Damn! I almost forgot. “Erica, I need a favor?”
She slings Coltrane’s backpack over her shoulder. “What’s up?”
“I have an audition tomorrow in the city.”
“Ooh, nice.”
“I know, it’s been a while since they’ve called. Can you watch Liv for a few hours?”
“Of course. Tomorrow’s a light day and my mother will be there with me if a call comes in.”
“How’s that going?” I ask.
“Girl, don’t get me started,” she huffs. “That woman is a piece of work.”
“How much longer is she staying?”
“Who knows? It was supposed to be temporary but she’s getting mighty comfortable. All I can say is pray for me.”
I laugh.
“Miss Liv is definitely welcome. McCoy would love to have her.” She kisses the top of his head. Text me when you are on your way.”
I thank Erica and we all head our separate ways. Getting our minds prepared and our emotions right for those hours after school that can feel like a full nine-to-five.
* * *
The children don’t give me a hard time leaving the school playground, so I’m feeling optimistic that tonight’s dinner, bath, and bedtime will be a breeze. My SUV isn’t fit for three car seats, but it’s my little piece of luxury and I make it work by cramming the car and booster seats together, tight like cigarettes in a fresh pack.
“Can I have a snack?” Rory asks as soon as he’s buckled in.
“Excuse me?” I eye him through the rearview mirror.
“May I have a snack?” He corrects himself and I reach into my bag and toss back two granola bars. On the avenue, I ask the children about their day, but neither remembers anything.
A few blocks later: “Stop.” Two shouts.
I look through the rearview mirror and fix Rory with a look that says please leave her alone. But it’s too late. Two has started wailing. The baby whines and now I’m pissed.
“What’s the matter?”
“She dropped her granola bar on the floor.”
I pull over in front of the Ukrainian church to sort things out. But thrusting the bar in her direction doesn’t stop her howling. This is Two’s time of day to be wound up, and she loses control in seconds. She doesn’t just cry; she screams like someone is drawing blood with a butcher knife. Nothing I say works to calm her. I consider pushing her out on the curb and leaving her to find her way home but realize that’s a bit dramatic, so I pull back in to traffic, turn up the radio, and tune her out.
Second House from the Corner Page 3
