The kid is staring at me. Actually, he’s staring at my right arm. It’s not a big shock, since everyone stares at my right arm. Even adults stare, but at least they look away when they notice me noticing. But this kid couldn’t care less that I’ve caught him staring at me.
And this is why I get my groceries delivered. This is why I work from home. This is why my skin is embarrassingly pale because I only venture out of my apartment once a week, at most.
I never wanted to become one of those loser computer geeks who’s holed up in an apartment and loses all contact with the outside world. But to be fair, nobody wants that. It just… happens.
“My mom said I could,” the kid finally says.
“Right,” I say, “but you’re throwing it outside my door, and it’s making it really hard for me to concentrate on my work.”
The kid’s jaw juts out. “My mom said I could.”
“Listen.” I hear any trace of niceness disappear from my voice. My resolution not to be an asshole is dissolving. “You can’t throw the ball here. Go to another floor or something.”
“My mom says I can’t leave the floor.”
My temple throbs. If that ball didn’t give me a migraine, this conversation will do it. “So go to the other end of the hallway. Around the corner.”
He shakes his head. “More room here.”
A muscle twitches in my right leg, and I tighten my grip on my forearm crutch. Even standing in one place is a lot of effort for me. “Look,” I say, “you can’t throw your ball here. You’re not allowed.”
“My mom says I can,” he insists again.
“Your mom is wrong.” I try to look him in the eyes, but his are focused like a laser beam on my right arm. I want to adjust my arm so it doesn’t look quite so bad, but I don’t dare release my crutch. “You can’t play with your ball in the hallway. Got it?”
“But—”
“And if I hear you doing it again,” I say, “I’m calling the building management. Cappish?”
The kid blinks at me. “Ca-what?”
To hell with it. Everyone already thinks I’m a grumpy asshole. May as well own it. “Look,” I say, “throw the ball again and I’m taking it.”
His eyes widen. “You can’t do that!”
“I sure can,” I say. “Anything that lands right outside my apartment is my property. And that includes your ball.”
The kid clutches the ball to his chest. His lower lip trembles. Shit. I didn’t make him cry, did I?
Christ, I didn’t want to make him cry. Maybe I’m a grumpy asshole, but I’m not a monster.
Not yet, anyway. Give me a few years of living here all alone, with no human contact. That’s the direction I’m headed.
But thankfully, he doesn’t cry. Instead, he sticks out his right hand, and shoots his middle finger up in the air.
Holy shit, that little kid just flipped me off!
I don’t even have a chance to react before he races away. That’s probably a good thing, since I’m not sure what I would have done. I definitely couldn’t reciprocate. You can’t give a grade schooler the finger. I’m sure if I had, some neighbor would have opened their door at that exact second. And then I’d be…
Well, I’m not sure what the punishment is for flipping off a child. But it wouldn’t be great. It’s not like I’ve got any friends in the building who would stick up for me. Aside from Fanny, but she’d be horrified too.
I have a bad feeling this isn’t over.
Chapter 2: Noelle
I’m shaking with anger.
I thought that was an expression people use, but in this case, it isn’t. I am literally shaking as I stare at the email on my phone. I am so pissed off right now at my ex-husband.
You would think the fact that Greg left me for his hygienist would give me the moral high ground forever. Yes, my husband the dentist left me for his hygienist. It was the biggest cliché ever. All my friends warned me not to let Greg hire a hygienist who was too attractive, but seriously, it’s not like I had any input in the matter. It’s not like my husband ran all his hires by me. By the time I laid eyes on Dina and was horrified by how young and pretty she was, she was already on the payroll. You can’t fire someone for being attractive—that would be an HR mess.
And yes, she’s younger than me. Ten years younger than me. Speaking of clichés.
Worst of all, because I’m apparently a masochist, I stalk her Facebook page, which is not set to private. She and Greg have traveled more in the year since he and I separated than we traveled during the entire ten years of our marriage. Why do I look at photos of Dina in a bikini in Bermuda, glaring at her perfect tummy that has clearly never held a full term fetus inside it? Why do I do that to myself? Her last Facebook update was: I love having a tan in December!
And now I get this gem from Greg in my inbox:
Noelle,
I was very disappointed to learn from Henry that you took him to see another dentist to have his teeth cleaned last week. Clearly, since his father is a dentist, it doesn’t make sense you should take him elsewhere. Dina is taking it personally that you don’t trust her to clean our son’s teeth properly, and she is quite hurt. Despite whatever personal grudge you have, Dina is an excellent hygienist and professional at all times. I expect in the future that you will bring Henry here for his next cleaning.
Best,
Greg
P.S. I believe you have my DVD of Blazing Saddles, and I would like you to return it when I pick Henry up next weekend.
First of all, let’s just get this out of the way: I do not have Greg’s copy of Blazing Saddles. I don’t even like that movie. And even if I did, I don’t even own a DVD player! Greg took ours when he moved out, and I never bothered to replace it. So the last thing I want is a stupid DVD for a movie I don’t even like that I wouldn’t even be able to play.
Okay, now let’s address the bigger issue:
I do not want to set foot in Greg’s dental offices ever again. I do not want Dina’s bubble gum pink fingernails in my son’s mouth. And yes, maybe I was being petty by taking Henry to another dentist when his very own father is a dentist, but when I thought of walking up the metal staircase to the dental office that Greg and I looked at together all those years ago, I just… couldn’t.
And Dr. Chambers is a good dentist. He has a whole treasure chest in the back that Henry got to rifle through for being well-behaved during his cleaning. So.
I chew on my thumbnail, which is this awful bad habit I have left over from my childhood. I do it whenever I’m angry or nervous or even bored. Every time I do it, I half expect to hear my mom snap at me, Noelle, stop chewing on your thumb! It drove Greg crazy too. I’d nearly managed to stop, but with the separation and then the divorce, I fell off the wagon. My stomach is probably filled with chunks of my thumbnail.
My fingers hover over the keypad on my phone’s screen, itching to type a scathing reply. I have the moral high ground after all.
But maybe I shouldn’t. I saw a therapist briefly after my separation, back when I could afford the copays, and she told me I needed to let go of my anger. Because if I don’t, I’m going to end up on blood pressure medications. Medications. Plural.
Before I can decide either way, the door to our apartment swings open. Henry stomps his way in, his little feet thumping loudly against the carpeted floor with each step. He throws himself against the sofa next to me, then starts tossing his rubber ball up in the air.
I cringe. He got that ball at a birthday party a month ago, and during that time, I’ve come to loathe it. It’s already broken two picture frames and toppled a small potted plant. It’s knocked over countless glasses of water or milk. Last night when I was trying to do our nightly chapter of Nate the Great so Henry doesn’t fall behind again in class, he took out the ball and started tossing it in the air while we were reading.
I want to confiscate the ball, but I can’t make myself do it. The divorce has been hard on Henry, and things aren’t better
now that he’s cooped up in this small apartment every evening thanks to the growing cold.
The cold is a major issue. It wouldn’t be so bad if Henry could do basketball on weekends like last year, but Greg has refused to take him, saying it disrupts their weekend plans—so he’s doing zero sports right now. When I sat down with Henry’s teacher during the parent-teacher conference last week and expressed concern that it seemed like my son couldn’t sit still lately and could it be a sign of attention deficit disorder, she said, “All the boys get restless when the weather changes and they can’t play outside as much. Imagine a little wind-up toy that is all wound up, then released in a tiny little space. It would be going everywhere, bouncing against all the walls constantly, wouldn’t it?”
A wind-up toy is a perfect analogy for Henry’s behavior lately.
So I’ve reluctantly allowed him to keep the ball. But after a near-miss with our television set yesterday, I told him he’s only allowed to play with it in the hallway, where nothing can be shattered.
“Henry,” I say carefully, “didn’t I say you could only play with the ball in the hallway?”
“Uh huh.” He tosses the ball up in the air. “But this guy said I can’t.”
This guy said I can’t. Getting a story out of an eight-year-old can be a challenge.
“What guy?” I ask.
“This weird old guy,” he says.
“Like… the super? Luis?”
Henry just barely catches the ball before it smashes into the vase on our end-table. “No, he lives here. In 5B.”
“Oh.” We moved out of our old apartment only two months ago, so I don’t know many of our neighbors yet. The old place had too many memories. Also, too many zeroes in the rent. Not that this place is cheap—everything in Manhattan is outright ridiculous. But I didn’t want to pull Henry out of his school and away from his friends on top of everything. So we got a one-bedroom and he sleeps on a cot in the living room. “What did the old man say to you?”
“He told me I can’t play with my ball in the hall,” Henry says.
I narrow my eyes at him. “Were you throwing it against his door? Because I told you that you’re only allowed to throw it against the floor or up in the air.”
“I wasn’t throwing it against his door!” he insists. When I give him a look, he says, “I swear, Mom! I was being quiet.”
I believe Henry. I’ve never known him to lie before.
“And,” he goes on, “the man said if he saw me doing it again, he’d take it away.”
My eyes fly open. “He said he’d take it?”
He nods solemnly. “Yeah, but I don’t think he really could. He’s got a cane, and I bet I could run away with the ball before he could get it.”
“That’s not the point, Henry.” My right hand balls into a fist. Let go of my anger—yeah, right. How could I not be angry? If this guy doesn’t like my kid innocently tossing a ball around in the hallway, then he should take it up with me. Not threaten an eight-year-old child. What is wrong with him? “He has no right to take your ball away!”
He has no right. And I should march over to 5B and tell this old man what’s what!
I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? He sprays me with Ben Gay?
“He didn’t take it,” Henry explains patiently. He holds up the blue rubber ball. “It’s right here. See, Mom?”
“Yes, but—” I start to say, but at that moment, Henry throws the ball, and naturally, it goes completely out of control. I flinch as it barely misses my face, zips past my ear, slams into our bookcase, and knocks over three picture frames in one incredible shot. The sound of glass shattering echoes through our small apartment.
Apparently, I will not be going over to confront Mr. 5B. I will be cleaning up broken glass shards from the floor.
“Oops,” Henry says.
“Go to your room,” I mumble. “Now.”
Nobody ever said being a single mom was easy.
Chapter 3: Jeremy
I never would have opened the door if I had any clue what would be behind it.
But I’ve been expecting a delivery. Band-Aids, courtesy of Amazon. I don’t even recall using any Band-Aids in the last several months, but yesterday I needed one when I slipped with the knife while trying to pry a bagel open, and they were all gone. Whenever I think I’ve finally got the hang of cutting things one-handed, I end up with a nice gash on my hand to prove me wrong. So I ordered Band-Aids. And also, a bagel guillotine.
Most people’s deliveries are left with the doorman, who keeps them stashed in a closet behind his desk. Lucky for me, Luis the super is nice enough to bring packages directly to my door. He does that favor for me and four other people in the building. All of the other tenants who get their packages hand-delivered are over the age of seventy. Certainly none of them are in their early thirties like yours truly.
I’d tell him I’d get the damn packages myself, but who am I kidding? I can’t carry a box while I’m walking. After six years of this, I’ve learned not to let my stupid pride get in the way.
Most of the time.
So when I hear the doorbell ring, I assume it’s Luis. I throw open the door without even checking the peephole. Big mistake. One I will soon pay for.
Standing before me are three grade-school-aged girls. Three girls, somewhere between kindergarten and puberty, who look as surprised to see me as I am to see them. I assume these girls are my neighbors from somewhere within the building, but damned if I’ve ever seen them before. That’s the problem with essentially being a shut-in—I don’t know my neighbors. Actually, it’s less of a problem and more of a fringe benefit.
The girls are dressed identically. Identically and impractically. It’s below freezing out today, yet they’re each wearing green velvet dresses with short sleeves and red trim. The girls each have their hair tied into identical pigtail braids with the same red satin bows that trim their dresses. The middle girl is the tallest and blondest of the three. She’s the prettiest too. I can almost see this girl ten years from now, striking down any poor schmuck who dares to approach her. When she sees me, she shoots a look at a tall woman in her early forties standing to the side. The meaning of the look is obvious:
Do we have to do this?
The woman plasters a smile on her face and thrusts a hand in my direction. “Hello!” she says in a fake cheerful voice that grates on my nerves. “My name is Shannon Williamson and I live in 8F!”
Shaking hands. So easy for most people. You stick out your right hand, clasp the other hand in front of you, and then it’s over. Bada bing, bada bang. Most people don’t even think about it.
My right arm doesn’t move. At all. Not my hand, not my elbow, not my shoulder. When my right hip started moving again, the doctors were hopeful for my arm, but nothing ever happened. Six months after an aneurysm burst in my brain on Christmas Day, I was told the chances of ever regaining any movement at all in my right arm were “slim to none.”
My right arm is useless. Completely and utterly useless.
I’ve gotten good at doing most things one-handed, albeit with occasional injury. For the first year, I was seething with resentment, but I’ve mellowed since then. So I can’t cut a bagel without nicking a vein. So I can’t tie my shoelaces anymore. Eventually, you get over it and move on.
The truth is, I could deal just fine with my right arm not being around to help me if the goddamn thing weren’t such a liability. That’s what kills me.
For example, at the moment, instead of lying quietly at my side, my right hand is clenched into a tight fist pressed firmly against my chest, my elbow bent as far as it can go, at the mercy of muscles I can’t control. It’s hard to even put a shirt on when my arm is this tight. It looks painful, and trust me—it is.
It’s the cold weather that does it to me. Not that the summer is any picnic, but the winter is always especially awful for my muscles. Yet another reason to dread Christmas.
Since I opened the door, Shannon Willi
amson has been trying desperately to avoid staring at my arm. I could see it all over her face. Yet she still stuck out her right hand for me to shake. And now I have to deal with this situation.
I sigh and let go of the handle of my crutch with my left hand to clasp her hand briefly, just so this awkward moment can be over. Her cheeks color as our hands make contact, and she’s quick to pull away. If I needed a reminder why I haven’t dated in years, there it is.
Christ, why the hell are these people at my door? Are they girl scouts? Are they selling cookies? I don’t want cookies, but I’ll give them a wad of cash to leave immediately.
“My daughter Katie and her friends Liz and Brianna are singing carols for the holiday,” Shannon Williamson explains to me. She’s not meeting my eyes anymore.
“Oh,” I say. “That’s nice.”
And then we stand there in uncomfortable silence. It takes fifteen seconds of silence before I get it.
These girls want to sing for me. Christmas songs.
Is she kidding me?
“Luis suggested you might enjoy it,” Shannon Williamson adds.
Oh. Okay, I get it now. Luis gave her the names of me and the other building shut-ins who were likely to be home at four in the afternoon on a Monday. He didn’t do it to be a jerk. He probably thought we all needed a bright spot in our day. A little Christmas cheer.
Except I’m in the middle of working, and I really really don’t have time to listen to Christmas carols. I’m about to explain that when the chubby little brunette on the end says to me, “What’s your favorite Christmas song, Mister?”
I stare at her. “I don’t like Christmas songs.”
The dark-haired girl’s eyes widen. “You don’t?”
She couldn’t have looked more horrified if I admitted to her that I’m ninety-five percent sure the Santa at the department store down the block is the homeless man I’ve seen sleeping on our corner.
How the Grinch Stole My Heart Page 2
