Really, was Everbright’s visit any of George’s business? My husband had been unavailable, so why should I bother to tell him that the cops were now involved? Huh. He didn’t care, did he? If he cared, how could George have gone so long without bothering to check on us?
“Nope. What you see is what there is.” I took a jar of Anya’s favorite baby food out of the refrigerator, uncapped it, covered it with plastic wrap, and put it in the microwave. On the stovetop, I set a pot of hot water to make macaroni and cheese, but the ugly splotch of the burned apple juice stopped me in my tracks. First I’d need to wipe it down.
Nah.
Instead, I switched burners. The move seemed ironic, because a slow burn was rising from my neck to my face. George was treating me like the hired help. He’d stayed out all night, and his first words were to ask if I’d unboxed coffee mugs? I kept my back to him, fearful that I would yell in frustration, if he even looked at me cross-ways.
A watched pot never boils, but I stood over the saucepan full of water like I’d never heard this axiom, watching anxiously for rising bubbles.
This is your life, Kiki. Your idea of a good time is keeping an eye on a pot of water. You are useful only for menial labor. Your husband doesn’t even come home at a decent hour — and, the next morning, he feels no need to explain or apologize. You are a big, fat zero. (Emphasis on the big and fat.)
I hate it when the voice inside my head chews me out. It was symptomatic of being tired, having indulged in wine, and not doing enough for myself. I knew I was teetering on the edge. I knew I needed a break. A little time outside this messy house would be a good start. And I needed an hour or so away from Anya.
But I wasn’t about to ask George for help. No way.
That said, I was tired of being ignored by him. Okay, maybe my figure rivaled that of the Pillsbury Dough Boy, but I was young, and Mr. Bergen had said I was pretty. I didn’t dress like our slutty neighbor, Leesa. But I also didn’t spend much money on my clothes. If I could lose a few pounds, I’d feel better about buying new things. Until then, the shopping trip would have to wait.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and googled local exercise programs. Scrolling past the gyms, I searched for dance-based options. I stopped when I got to Zumba. The colorful green and purple logo struck a chord. In our mailbox, there’d been evidence of a mix-up by the postal delivery person. Sorting through the bills and flyers, I found a large envelope with the Zumba logo, addressed to Leesa, which I’d dutifully returned.
Seeing it now, the bright icon seemed like an invitation to fun. The schedule showed a late afternoon session. Participants could pay a walk-in fee or buy a regular class pass, but you had to arrive fifteen minutes early to complete paperwork. A glance at the clock told me I had two and a half hours to get ready.
“I hope you don’t have plans for this afternoon,” I said to my husband without bothering to turn around. “I’m going out. Alone.”
George had pulled up a chair next to Anya’s. I’d heard the legs scraping the floor. Anya was happily banging her spoon on the tray of her high chair. The microwave dinged, signaling the baby food was heated. But the loudest sound was the roar of anger in my head.
“You need me to babysit?” George sounded whiney.
I fought the urge to take the jar of hot baby food and throw it at him. Instead, I clamped my teeth together, hard, and counted to ten. As I emptied the food into a bowl so it could cool, I said, “No. You see, George, when it’s your own child, you are not a babysitter. It’s called parenting. I realize it might interfere with your nighttime ritual of staying out till all hours, but them’s the breaks, pal. You have spent exactly zip time with your daughter since we moved. Zip, zilch, nada.”
I smiled a nasty smile. “Now you have a choice to make. Either you spend time with her, or you continue to turn your back on her. If you decide on the latter, don’t expect Anya to run to you when she needs someone. She’ll come to me. That’s okay, because I’ll always be here for her, but you’re going to miss out on what it means to be a father. And, buddy, you’re coming awfully close to letting that particular barn door slam shut behind you. Keep it up, and you’ll have bailed out on the most important relationship of your life.”
He literally gasped. The blood drained from his face. Hearing the boiling water rattle the pot, I poured in the pasta.
Anya quit banging her spoon. Her lively eyes moved from me to George and back to me. Okay, she couldn’t parse the words, but she knew something significant had happened.
“I, uh...” He stopped. “Work and then...”
I stared him down. “Frankly, I don’t care where you were or what you did. Nor am I interested in hearing you lie about it. But I do care about our daughter.”
With that, I set the bowl of baby food down in front of Anya.
“You probably don’t realize this, but Anya loves Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. You can finish it up for her. The macaroni is in the pot. Just follow the directions on the box,” I said, and I walked out of the room.
34
After making an exit like that, you can’t turn around and walk back into the room. It’s anti-climactic. Besides, George needed to stew in his own juices. If I did an about-face and re-entered the kitchen, he’d be off the hook, and that would negate everything I’d said.
My only option was to grab my keys and go for a drive. As I hoisted my purse over one shoulder, I also grabbed the diaper bag, before realizing that I wouldn’t need it. Suddenly, I recognized, with terrible clarity, that I’d grown accustomed to having Anya by my side. So much so that going anywhere without her felt wrong, as if the hook-side of the Velcro surrounding my heart had been ripped free from its corresponding loops. The freedom versus the isolation hit me with a one-two emotional punch. I’d grown too dependent on my baby. While I had always thought that she needed me, I’d come to rely on her, too. Anya had become my “lovey,” fulfilling for me what her stuffed rabbit did for her.
The pull to see her was seismic. I had to force myself to walk down the hall that ran along to the side door. On my way to the car, I stopped in the laundry room and dug around in a box labeled EXERCISE CLOTHES. Those words had been written with a thick Sharpie, because I’d been overly optimistic. In my dreams, our move would magically change me from a slightly overweight housewife to an organized and efficient, slim and trim, young mother who belonged here in tony Ladue. The box had become emblematic of those dreams, as I’d gone online and purchased a pair of exercise pants and cute top to match my fantasies. All I needed to become that totally fit woman was a pair of shoes and socks.
Tucking the togs under one arm, I exited our side door and climbed into my car. Once there, my automatic impulse was to turn and check on Anya, making sure she was securely fastened in her car seat.
But, of course, Anya was inside the house with her father.
The recognition that I relied on her so entirely shook me to my very core.
This was not right. Instinctively, I realized that if I didn’t build a life for myself outside the orb of my child’s world, I would cripple both of us. She would sense this neediness of mine. It would keep her from venturing forth, as surely as a chain keeps a dog tethered to a doghouse in a backyard. And for me, the attachment would prove equally disastrous. I would long for her, depend on her, and need her, rather than provide a launching pad for her.
Humbled by this, I keyed the ignition and backed out slowly. I had no idea where I would go except to buy those shoes and socks and show up for the Zumba class. No friend to visit. Nowhere to stop and say, “Hi!” That also shook me to the core. I knew I needed a life outside my house, but where was I going to find one?
After inching the car to the end of the driveway, I panicked. I needed to let George assume his role as Anya’s father and to give Anya a relationship with her dad. But what could I do for myself? Where, oh where, would I find Kiki?
There was nothing to do but venture forth, in search of the person I might become.
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At the corner, I spotted Mr. Bergen. One hand rested on a cane, and the other was jammed deep in his pants pocket. I rolled down a window. “Hi, Mr. Bergen. How are you and Bart?”
“That rascal. He’s gone and run off again.”
This seemed to be the ongoing dance of their lives, a complex pattern they followed day after day.
“I’ll be extra careful driving and keep an eye out for your kitty.”
He nodded. “You do that, girlie.”
35
A stop at DSW proved fruitful. I found a pair of shoes intended for aerobic dancing. The sole was flat enough to accommodate turning and spinning. The salesgirl pointed out socks on sale, and I snapped up a couple of pairs. Next I ran into the nearest CVS. I bought a cheap refillable water bottle, an energy bar, an inexpensive purse-sized hairbrush, and a new scrunchie. Thus armed, I slicked my hair back off my face, gobbled down the energy bar — which must be a new name for candy bar — and headed for the gym’s parking lot.
How was I going to fill the hour before the class started?
A Michaels Crafts store and a Barnes & Noble Booksellers occupied the same plaza as the gym. With a cautious enthusiasm, I headed for those two stores.
Inside Michaels, I wandered around and admired all the Halloween décor items. A few were too spooky for Anya, but a couple might tickle her fancy. I chose a talking owl and a silly witch that you could hang in your window.
The scrapbooking aisle intrigued me, especially when I noticed a book called Scrapbook Storytelling by Joanna Campbell Slan. It explained simple ways to save all sorts of memories. I put it in the cart, found a cheap notebook on sale, and decided I would do better at taking pictures of Anya and writing down her adventures. Somewhere in my belongings, I had a book that my nana had made for me by sewing together pieces of black cotton fabric and gluing on pictures from magazines. Michaels didn’t have much in the way of fabric, but I picked up a tube of E-6000 glue. Until if could visit a fabric store, at least I could start saving pictures.
Inside Barnes & Noble, I realized they had more stationery, toys, and gifts than books. That made me sad. However, I found the mystery aisle and picked up a few new paperbacks.
Having wasted a little time so pleasantly, I gathered my purchases and walked to the car. Alternately, I felt liberated and guilty. I hadn’t earned any of the money I’d spent. It was George’s. Or was it? Hadn’t we agreed that I’d stay home with our child? Wasn’t it up to me to feed her, bathe her, entertain her, schedule her doctor visits, and get up with her at night?
Did that count as a job?
I wasn’t exactly sure.
36
“Fill this out.” An incredibly muscular young woman pushed a clipboard with a form my way. A pen dangled from a string tied to the clip.
The girl didn’t seem particularly interested in me. After shoving the paperwork my way, she went back to texting on her phone. Her thumbs, with their chipped orange polish, were moving at a lightning fast speed.
After signing my name to a promise that I was in generally good health and that I didn’t intend to drop dead in the middle of a class and that if I did I wouldn’t sue them — although how I could sue them if I were dead eluded me — I handed the clipboard back to the girl, who’d since pinned on a nametag that said, “Sandy.”
“That’ll be twenty bucks. Cash.” Her open palm waited for the money.
“I thought my first session was free. That’s what it says on your website.”
She narrowed her eyes. Her smile disappeared. “Oh. I forgot.”
Somehow that rang hollow. I had a mental image of Sandy pocketing the odd twenty dollar bill several times a week. She had a nice scam going.
Rather than ask where the changing room was or where the class would be held, I walked past Sandy, as though I was already a member. The locker room seemed clean enough. I found an empty spot in the back and changed my clothes. The stretchy exercise clothes emphasized all my lumps and bumps. In the mirror, a black and purple sausage stared back at me.
“I’m in the right place,” I told the pathetic-looking woman in the mirror. “Because if I start exercising regularly, those lumps and bumps are sure to disappear.”
After that, I avoided my reflection. That woman in the mirror had her life, and I had mine. I put on my new socks and shoes. Shoving my purse into a locker, I twisted the key attached to a plastic bracelet and tested the door to see that I had, indeed, locked the metal vault. I filled my new bottle with cold tap water and took a deep breath.
Time to hit the dance floor!
37
One other woman was waiting in the classroom. She’d spread a yoga mat on the floor and begun by assuming a kneeling pose. I skirted around her, found a spot nearby and sat down. When she un-pretzeled herself, she noticed me. “Hi, I’m Maggie Earhart. You’re new, right?”
“Yes.” I introduced myself.
“You didn’t hand over twenty bucks to Sandy, did you?”
“Nope.”
“That girl. The only reason they don’t fire her is that she’s the owner’s niece. What a sneaky little thief. I bet she didn’t warn you about the teacher either.”
Uh-oh. A tingle swept over my body. “Warn me about the teacher. Um, no. She didn’t. What is it I should know?”
Maggie waved a hand in the air. She had adorable freckles sprinkled over her nose. Her green-blue eyes danced with merriment. Like me, she’d slicked back all her hair, capturing it with a coated rubber band. “Let’s say she has mood swings.”
I blinked. I couldn’t think of anything appropriate to say. Fortunately, I didn’t have to. Maggie kept on talking. “Her name is Leesa Nordstrom, and she’s from Norway or Denmark or some other frozen land of Vikings. She thinks she’s perfection itself. I’ll admit she’s got a body that doesn’t stop, but she’s not much of a teacher. Oh, she gets up there and dances, but she doesn’t give you any direction at all. Doesn’t call the steps before they happen. Since you’re new, you might want to stand up front, so you can follow her. Otherwise, until you know the songs, you’ll probably be lost.”
I sincerely doubted that Leesa would be joining us, seeing that her husband was in hospital, but rather than share my inside knowledge, I decided to stay mum. “That’s great advice. But I wouldn’t be comfortable up front. Not with everybody staring at me. Even if I miss a step or two, I’d rather be in the back. Where does Leesa stand?”
Maggie pointed to the far end of the room. She also told me where I could find a mat, because I’d need one for the last ten minutes of the class, the cool down.
“Have you ever taken a Zumba class before?”
“I’ve watched them on TV,” I said. “But never taken one live. This’ll be a new experience for me.”
“I love the Latin music. It’s so energizing. I started with another girl, Grenata. She was terrific. Very friendly, got to know your name, broke down the hard steps for you, eager to praise anyone for anything. Yes, Grenata was wonderful. You left feeling so upbeat we called her the ‘human high.’”
“When does she teach?”
A woman walked in and took a spot a few feet to the right of me.
Maggie gave the newcomer a tiny wave of greeting. Turning sad eyes to me, my new friend shook her head. “Grenata doesn’t teach anymore. She’s dead.”
38
That set my heart racing, even before Leesa bounced into the room. She wore skin-tight pants and a top that looked like a slasher had attacked it with scissors. Underneath the open-air tee was a snug bra top. Like most of us, she’d pulled back her hair. Unlike most of us, she’d applied her makeup with a trowel.
A trio of similarly dressed young women walked in with Leesa. They took all the prime spots in the front of the class. The first five minutes of our one-hour session were spent with Leesa fiddling with the sound system. Her back stayed to us, and she didn’t appear to be in any hurry. Nor did she offer any apologies.
I glanced over at Maggie, who shrug
ged at me in a “what-are-you-going-to-do?” sort of way.
We waited patiently. At one point, Leesa stood up and did a head count. When she got to me, her mouth fell open. “You? You are here?” Her tone was faintly accusatory.
That ticked me off. I’d rushed to her husband’s aid. I’d called the ambulance for him. I knew he was in the hospital and I wondered why on earth his wife felt it incumbent on her to go ahead and teach a silly exercise class under the circumstances.
“Yes,” I said firmly. “I am here.”
With a sneer, she went back to the sound system.
“What was that all about?” asked Maggie.
But I never had the chance to answer, because Leesa finally got the right tunes cued up. Once she heard the opening strains, she cranked the volume as loud as it would go. The mirrors on the surrounding walls shivered to the deep vibrations of the bass. With her back to us, as though none of us existed, Leesa began a series of warm-up moves that could best be called provocative. More accurately, I found them embarrassing. The fingers trailing over our private parts, the sensual tossing of our heads, well, it was a bit much — and our instructor seemed to retreat into her own tiny world. We ceased to exist.
The music changed abruptly. A gleeful Latin tune surrounded us. “New song,” announced Leesa. Now she moved like the instructors I’d seen on TV. She plunged into a series of steps that I found easy enough to follow. The steps Leesa was doing were nothing particularly difficult, but if you’d never seen them before, they would be confusing. Most of the students lost their way. Leesa’s special friends kept up with her. So did I.
Kiki Lowenstein Books 1-3 & Cara Mia Delgatto Books 1-3: The Perfect Series for Crafters, Pet Lovers, and Readers Who Like Upbeat Books! Page 9
