Authors: Virginia Franken
“I’m not touching your stinky body. I’m not doing anything,” says Billy. He’s as tired of the whole thing as the rest of us. Violet lets out a killer scream. This close to her “body,” it’s so shrill it’s like someone just plunged a scalpel into my ear. I turn around in my seat and catch Billy red-handed squeezing Violet’s arm.
“STOP TOUCHING HER BODY!” I yell at both my children in cold fury.
Can’t we even drive the six blocks to school peacefully without emergency intervention? Some reptilian sense in the back of my brain tingles. I swing around to face front just in time to slam on the breaks for the stop sign as a car whizzes past us on the road ahead. If I’d allowed myself to be distracted by my children for just another half a second, that would have been a head-on collision. It’s then that I really lose my cool. I don’t remember what I say. I think I do refer to the fact that their arguing nearly caused the death of all of us and maybe that might not be such a bad thing. Billy stares back at me red-faced, crying. Violet just gets that glazed-over look she has whenever she’s being told off.
I’m a monster.
We drive the last two blocks in the silence that I’ve been craving. By the time we get to school, both children seem to have recovered completely from my outburst. We pull up in the front. We’re ever so slightly early, so the lot is deserted. If I can quickly run in and out again, I should be able to safely leave Violet in the car without anyone calling social services. The buckle on her car seat is so frickin’ stiff, I nearly puncture my skin with my thumb bone every time I try to undo it. I’m already feeling weaker than normal because of my bout of insomnia last night. It’s no more than sixty-nine degrees outside. She can stay in the car.
“Billy, out of the car. Violet, I’ll be back in two minutes.” She’s singing herself a made-up song about a pair of fabulous red shoes worn by a happy pony, and it’s so all-consuming she doesn’t even notice when I close the car door. Billy and I head through the gates.
“Mommy, if you live in Chinatown, can you still speak Spanish?”
“Yes, of course.”
“But why?”
“Why what?”
“Why would you speak Spanish if you lived in Chinatown?”
“Maybe because you were from Spain.”
“But then why would you be living in Chinatown?”
“I don’t know, Billy.”
“Can you speak Spanish, Mommy?”
“Yes, sweetie.”
“Have you been to Chinatown?”
“I have.”
“Have you been to Spain?”
“I have not.”
“Why not?”
Oh my God. And it goes on. Round and round in circles. Maybe he’ll be a prosecutor when he grows up. He’ll get people on the stand to fold purely because they’d rather take the jail time than keep trying to answer his endless, pointless questions. Questions. I thought that was going to be one of the best things about parenting: telling my kids about the world we live in, from my own wise point of view. Didn’t work out that way. Maybe I’d be more into it if the questions made any sense or had actual answers. For example: “Where does rain come from?” or “Can you tell us about the carbon cycle, Mommy?” I’d be all over that. Instead, it’s all: “What does five minutes look like?” and “If it’s sunny in heaven, will I have to wear sunscreen?”
The minute I walk into Billy’s school room, I remember. It’s Flag Day. All the kids are supposed to dress in colors of the flag that represents their heritage
and
I was supposed to bring in, like, twenty-four party favors. Billy was meant to dress in blue and yellow to represent my Swedish background, but he’s wearing a dirty fluorescent-orange Nike T-shirt and a pair of denim shorts. Quick as a whip I pull out my phone and Google “blue and orange flag color.”
“Hey, Billy. Hey, Mrs. O’Hara,” says his teacher. Damn, I can’t remember her name. There are two of them working in Billy’s classroom and they
both
have red hair, for goodness’ sake.
“Hey,” Billy says.
“So, those are the colors of the Swedish flag?” she asks, getting out her phone to take his picture for the wall. She must have figured out how to print photos from her phone. I haven’t held a physical photo that I’ve snapped myself this century. There’s a huge chart on the wall with all the kids’ names on it, alongside the nationality they’ve chosen to represent for the day. By “Billy O’Hara,” it says “Sweden.”
“Actually, we checked with my father and Billy’s great-grandfather was Armenian!” I say chirpily. I’m always surprised by how easily I am able to tell a lie. I deserve to be haunted by the entire clan of Janssons for at least the next six months of my life for denying my Nordic roots in the name of convenience.
“Your ancestry is Armenian?” she says, flicking a meaningful look over my and Billy’s white-blond hair.
“Yup. Armenian,” I say, and gaze over to her chart. She grudgingly picks up a thick marker and runs a big black line through “Sweden” and writes “Armenia” in its place. The chart is ruined.
From out in the corridor comes the urgent slam and scrape of a busy woman wearing heels. I turn around to see another Cheerful Cheetah mom in full office garb blazing through the front door. She looks exhausted, a little tense, perfectly groomed. Her daughter is wearing a beautiful patchwork dress of green, red, and white.
“Nice dress,” I say before I can stop myself. I generally try to limit my interactions with the other moms. It always just ends with me finding out information that I really didn’t want to know, like there’s a special orange folder that Billy’s supposed to take home every day that’s stuffed with homework that hasn’t been done for three weeks, or that we’re zoned for an elementary school so low in the ratings that we’re either going to have to go private or move.
“Thanks. Regina’s grandma made it for her. The colors are for the flag of Italy.” She smiles, and some of the tension leaves her face. She’s pretty when you remove the first layer of stress. She’s carrying a cloth bag brimming over with what I can see are party favors. Damn it. The party favors. Why is it that I can instantly recall which roasting recipes work best for eighty different types of bean at any waking moment but can’t remember something as simple as bringing twenty-four nationality-themed party favors to preschool?
“So I forgot the party favors I was supposed to bring,” I say in the general direction of Billy’s teacher. I really wish I could remember her name. “I can run to Target now and drop them off in about an hour if that’s okay?” Billy looks up at me from where he’s constructing some kind of epic tower from Lego. It’s a look that’s both embarrassed and scornful. If I wasn’t already feeling like the C-minus adult in the room, I surely do now.
“No need,” says Regina’s mom. “I always bring extra ’cause someone always forgets.” She flashes me a genuine smile to show me she’s not being Judgment Mom. “We’re all so busy, aren’t we?”
Finally. Someone who gets it. I’m just starting to think about a nonstalkerish way of asking her if she’d be down for our kids having a playdate sometime when there’s the sound of a smashing Lego tower. We all turn around to see Regina and Billy on the floor fighting. Regina stands up and starts punching Billy hard on the arm; Billy’s still down, but he’s kicking out at her legs with everything he’s got. We all swoop in, but before we get there Billy lands the ultimate one: he bites her, right on the fleshy part of her hand. I go for Billy and pull him out from under Regina. Regina immediately stops fighting and runs to her mother. Billy continues to lash out and smacks me square in the face.
One second later, the teacher with no name somehow grabs Billy from behind and manages to fold his arms square across his chest, holding his wrists in both of her hands. She has the willful facial expression of someone who’s done this plenty of times before.
“Billy. I am holding you because I will not let you hurt your body or your mother’s body. I will let you go when you calm down.”
Billy doesn’t calm down. He’s wiggling like a fish tangled in a net.
“Mommy, no! Make her stop—she’s hurting me!” he screams, bucking up against her restraint.
What do I do? What do I do?
“It’s probably best if you just go,” says his teacher.
“Really?” I ask.
“It’s just easier. He’ll calm down quicker. We’ve been through this with Billy before.” I didn’t know that. “Just go for now.”
Stay or go? My natural instinct is to tell this woman to get her hands the hell off my son—but then what? Watch him as he goes on a rampage around the classroom? Let him wage a full-on war against Regina?
“Billy, I need you to listen to your teacher and try to calm down. Mommy will see you later,” I manage to choke out. I then duck my head down and leave the room, fast. I haven’t even got the balls to give an apologetic look to my almost-friend.
I step back outside into the sun and push down the sob that is threatening. It’s not even nine, and this is shaping up to be one of the worst days of my life ever. And that’s a title not won easily.
As I approach the parking lot, I see a gaggle of mothers surrounding my vehicle. That’s why no one’s in class yet. And then I remember: Violet. My instinct is to run to the car, but a flash of insight tells me that if I do that, I’ll look guilty. I’ve technically done nothing wrong. Well, maybe technically I have. But really I haven’t. My mother used to leave me in the car for an hour at a time when she ran errands. Mind you, that was in the eighties. She also used to drive around town with me in a Moses basket just slung on the backseat when I was baby. I doubt that would fly these days.
“Hey,” I say to the group. The nervous comes out as hostile.
“Is this your car?” asks one of the gaggle.
“Yes,” I reply.
“Your daughter is trapped inside!” she says, gesturing to the back where Violet’s running
Titanic
hands down the window and yelling, “Let me out!”
“I just dropped off Billy. I was gone for two minutes.” In the background I hear someone say, “That’s
Billy’s
mother.” Apparently this is somehow significant as there’s suddenly a ripple of comprehension through the crowd. I hear another voice speaking into a phone: “It’s okay, the mother has returned to her vehicle.”
My God. Someone actually called the cops! A heavyset woman wearing nothing but Birkenstocks and a paisley shirtdress pushes through the crowd; she has a fire extinguisher over one shoulder.
“Stand back!” she yells, and starts at a run for the back window.
“STOP RIGHT NOW!” I yell. She catches herself just before she throws the fire extinguisher through the window. “What are you doing?” I ask. It seems a pretty sensible question. It’s not hot out. My daughter is in no danger. Or at least she was in no danger until people started threatening to throw fire extinguishers in her face. These women have gone insane.
“I was going to save your daughter!” she puffs, dropping the fire extinguisher to the ground.
“By showering her in glass?” This gives them all pause for the moment. The mothers at the edge of the circle start to step away, maybe perturbed by the realization that shattered glass in the back of a car might actually pose more of a realistic hazard to a kid than being left alone for a few moments. “I was gone ten minutes.”
“It’s against the law,” says one of the mothers. I bite back an urge to say, “Blow me.” Instead I open the car door, get in the driver’s seat, and slam it closed again. I start up the engine, which quickly disperses the last of the crowd. Maybe they think I’m such a rogue outlaw that I’ll mow ’em down on the way out of here. I sure would like to.
It doesn’t take me the full six blocks home to ’fess up to the reality of what’s happening here: I have no idea how to handle being a parent. This is not the kind of situation where you can learn on the job. These kids are too old. I never experienced the slow learning curve where you grow as a parent alongside your child. I’ve missed too much. They’re too messed up. They need their father back. I have to escape this hourly realization that I’ve no idea what I’m doing. I have to get away from the knowledge that I’m a ridiculous stranger in the eyes of my children. Again, it’s looking like I have no choice: I have failed at being a mother.
I have to get back to work.
CHAPTER 8
From: [email protected]
Hi darling! Hope you are all doing well. Send some piccies of the kiddies when you can—I know you don’t have time for the Facebook but it would be nice to see their new long legs! I’d love to come and see them for myself at some point, but I’ve no clue when I’m next going to be able to visit—I’d be worried about leaving your father, to be honest. He’s still managing to walk into Farsley and back right now, but it seems to get a bit harder each week. Plus, I’m sure you’ve seen the price of flights at the moment—good God! How do they justify it?
Anyway—love to all. Let’s Skype when you’re next not working.
Love, Mom
I hit the “Home” button on my phone—the quickest route to making the e-mail go away. We can’t Skype. The first thing Billy and Violet would do is spill the beans about my job and then I’d be in trouble for not telling my parents, on top of getting them all riled up. Sigh. Oh, to have been one of those women who found a job, met a guy, and started a family in the same town as her parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents. I don’t really remember ever making a conscious decision not to do that. Circumstance just decided to shred my chance at having that life the minute I hit double digits. It’s too late to try and claw any semblance of it back now. Too many holes in the fabric.
After talking to Billy’s teacher at pickup, I found out the reason for his almighty fallout with Regina, and it wasn’t anything to do with her pushing over his epic Lego tower. It was, in fact, because of his nails. Or, as Regina called them, his “princess nails.” Since I’ve been at home, Peter has given up on every single aspect of childcare, including the washing of the children and also, it would seem, the cutting of their sharp little nails. I gave Billy’s nails a quick glance upon hearing what had caused all the drama, and I have to say, Regina had a point. They were like a row of shovels on the ends of his fingers. Along with the heads-up to cut my kid’s nails, Billy’s teacher also directed me toward a book she wants me to read on parenting highly emotional children. This is the first time there’s been an advantage to attending this hippie-dippie preschool: Billy’s been labeled an “emotional child” rather than a “problem child.” I’ll take it. I’ll take anything that implies that I haven’t raised my son to be an asshole but rather merely failed in the handling of his extreme emotions. I’ve downloaded the book to my phone. It hasn’t happened yet, but at some point soon I will make the time to read it. Maybe it will give me some pointers for handling Peter too.
Speaking of Peter, Violet and I have come out to HushMush today to surprise him. He doesn’t generally like surprises, but we’re doing it anyway. From outside I’m looking right at his laptop screen. Straight through the window, over his shoulder, and what do I see? Cars. He’s checking out Lexuses, or should that be Lexi? I don’t know why he’s checking out Lexuses—he’s got zero hope of trading in his Honda minivan anytime soon. Perhaps it’s research related. I knock on the window. He turns around to see Violet and me, noses pressed up against the glass, and hurriedly closes his laptop. Not research related, then.
As Violet and I enter the café, the smell of refined sugar spirals up my nostrils. I can’t even make out the scent of what coffee they might be serving; my senses can’t get through the wall of sucrose. As we approach, Peter opens up the laptop again and starts rapidly typing on his keyboard.
Oh, don’t try and fake it now.
“Hey.” I smile.
“Hey, guys! Want some coffee?” I give him a look. He knows I wouldn’t drink this coffee. It’s bad enough that I’m
in
HushMush. What if someone saw me? Does he not remember what I do for a living?
“Daddy!” Violet gives Peter a hug. He pulls her onto his lap and covers the top of her head in kisses. They both look so beautiful with their matching dark curls and night-blue eyes. I feel like the ugly impostor.
“I’ve missed my beautiful girl,” says Peter, beaming and holding Violet aloft under the armpits like she’s an animated rag doll.
“Thanks. I’ve missed you too,” I reply. Yeah, I know he wasn’t talking about me.
“Come here,” he says, and pulls me in to him. He nudges the top of my head back and gives me a soft kiss right in the center of my neck. Jeez, that makes the tops of my ears go cold. Is this why I put up with what I put up with?
“What are you doing here?” asks Peter.
“We have to talk.”
“And what does the love of my life want to talk about?”
“I’m thinking of looking for another job.”
“Amy! Why? I told you, I’ve got this covered. This is your time with the kids. Enjoy it.”
“Well . . .” I can’t confess to my husband that I’m a lousy parent and have to get back to work to escape my children
in front
of my child. Can I? “How are you feeling about the screenplay?”
“Feeling?”
“Do you feel like Matt’s definitely going to buy it? Do you feel like you could bear to see it go into production having someone else make changes to it?” Matt finally got back to set up our compulsory meeting. It’s next week. It’s been very hard work not to constantly think about it.
“Changes?”
“Any Lexuses in your screenplay?”
“No, why?”
“Never mind. I’m just trying to get a handle on how realistic a cash cow this thing really is.”
“I don’t know if I’d exactly call it a cash cow.”
“So essentially you can guarantee nothing.”
“I have a strong feeling that, at some point, this screenplay will sell and make us some money. I don’t know what to tell you outside of that.”
“Well, in that case, I’m going to Bean à
la Bean to talk to Roth Ellis.”
“About what?”
“What do you think? A job.” Of course, you understand I was
already
intending to go and talk to Roth Ellis about a job today, but now that I’ve successfully squeezed a confession out of Peter that he realistically doesn’t know when this screenplay of his is going to make any money, I have
justification
. And now my job search is no longer about the fact that I have to get away from my children; it can be about the fact that yet again my husband can’t commit to bringing home the bacon—or even so much as a slice of toast to go with the bacon—and my salary is needed to save the day. Much better.
“Mommy, I don’t want you to get a job and go away again.”
Great.
Peter looks up at me. It’s a look dripping with the suggestion that I’m the actual most uncaring parent of all time. I don’t feel like an uncaring parent; I don’t feel like a parent at all. More like a biologically related reluctant babysitter. I am not going to be made to feel guilty because I have to bring his Internet-surfing career to an early close. He just doesn’t want me to go back to work so he doesn’t have to deal with the kids by himself again. I absolutely do not blame him. I just wish he would be honest about it instead of running off to HushMush to pretend to work on his screenplay and giving me a mommy guilt trip.
“Mommy isn’t going away—we’re just going to go and talk to one of my friends.”
“That’s nice. Lie to the girl.”
“Mommy, are you lying?” Why am I the constant villain in my own life? There is no right choice here. It’s not
new
news that there never is a right choice in my life these days.
“Mommy’s not lying. Daddy’s just making a funny joke.”
“I don’t think it’s funny.” She pouts. Such a pretty pout.
“Me neither. Daddy isn’t very good at jokes.” I pick up Violet in anticipation of a tantrum. “We’ll see you later. Enjoy the Lexus perving while you still can.”
“Amy? Can’t we talk about this?”
“Nope.” And with that I make my exit as huffily as I can while carrying a long-legged three-year-old on my hip. Yup, I can be pretty inflexible. Peter can certainly spin out from time to time, but I’m not far behind him as far as crappy communication skills go. We’re a match made in heaven—maybe the rough inner-city part of heaven.
Surprisingly, I have my archnemesis, Dexter, to thank for my job interview today. While I sit, my sit bones digging into the hardest bench in the Eastside, waiting for Roth, I pull out my phone to read through Dexter’s grovely e-mail one more time. I get a little bit happy every time I read it.
From: [email protected]
Amy,
Your recent reply of “You can shove your kind concern up your ugly, hairy rectum” to my text asking how you are leads me to think that a phone call may not be the most effective form of communication right now. Hence this e-mail.
I know you are angry. I know you are wondering what on earth happened to our company and our mission to source and develop the best coffee in the world. I also know you’re steaming mad that I didn’t share the buyout money with you.
I know it’s a hard thing to hear, Amy, but two million dollars isn’t really a lot of cash. I don’t get all of it. There are taxes to be paid, creditors. I’ll be lucky to walk away with a few hundred thousand. And, yes, that sounds like a lot, but really, it’s not that much for everything I’ve done. I’ll barely be able to pay off my mortgage. And then what? I know you worked hard for this company too, but I was the one who put my financial balls on the line to get it started.
Having said that, you are right that I have let down our farmers and their families, and that’s what I’m e-mailing you about today.
A friend of mine, Roth Ellis, owns Bean à la Bean—I’m sure you know of it. If you want, I can set up an introduction for you. Once he tastes the Yayu he’ll be interested, seriously interested. Who wouldn’t be? He’s about the only guy in the game who has the financial resources right now. If he takes you up on the Yayu, maybe you can persuade him to bring on some of our other farmers too.
As I say—I can set it up, if you like. The rest is up to you.
Dex
P.S. Really, still with the EarthLink address?
Ultimately I’d have liked to have seen a little bit more guilt-ridden hand wringing. However, the overriding tone of supreme self-justification leads me to think that rather than taking pleasure in sitting around all day in his newly paid-off house, he’s actually mentally torturing himself about all of this.
I look at my reply again:
From: [email protected]
Fuck you very much. I will take that intro.
He knows he’s somewhat on the way to being forgiven. If I’d wanted to push the knife in deeper, I’d have been icy polite with him. He’ll be sleeping easier in his eco-certified platform bed tonight.
Now Roth Ellis is very fucking cool. Quite a bit too cool if you want my opinion—which nobody seems to at the moment. Back in the nineties when I started working in coffee, coffee was definitely not a magnet for hipster nerds. At best it was probably slightly interesting to a few seriously noncool people. However, these days, to know your Kurimi from your Yirgacheffe makes you the hippest kind of hipster. Everyone in Bean à la Bean is dressed in a cutting-edge Silver Lake uniform of porkpie hat and skinny jeans, with big old holes in the earlobes. None of them have any real heartfelt knowledge of what actually had to happen in order for them to have their trendsetting beverage experience. When did all this hoopla come about? Can’t it just be about the coffee anymore?
And then in the middle of this mecca for hipsters there’s me, wearing cargo pants purchased in 2001 and a sensible Old Navy tank top. My ears were once pierced, but the tiny holes have since resealed through lack of penetration. And yes, there’s another analogy in there, but let’s not get off topic.
My lack of cool is clearly a problem for Roth when he finally turns up. He’s on the opposite end of the style spectrum from me and seems to be going for the surfing-CEO look, wearing a tailored jacket over a pair of pin-striped board shorts. His hair is fascinating. It’s shaved and dark at the sides but long and ash-blond on the top, with gas-flame-blue roots. Either he’s part elf or he’s been getting some serious assistance from someone at Supercuts. It all seems a little involved for a guy in his late forties. I can read the internal conflict scrawled across his face as I tell him about my new rust-resistant wonder bean:
This bean could be the answer to all of my pricing issues. Wait . . . are those cargo pants she’s wearing? I’ve got to get her to cup those beans for me. Where is that clingy kid’s nanny? Is that glue across her glasses?
“So you can see why I need to get back out there as soon as I can. Getu trusts me. He wants to work with me, but he can’t sit on this forever.”
“And you have the beans now?”
“I have the beans. They’re something special. They’ve got such a syrupy softness, Roth. It’s like drinking just-cut sugarcane.”
“How do you know it’s rust resistant?”
“That’s just Getu’s observation. He had rust come through recently right before the rain and it’s still over everything. But this varietal’s completely clean. There’s a lab nearby in Jimma—I can test it there.” Violet monkeys up onto my lap and starts twisting my hair around her fingers. I can see Roth’s interested, super interested. I’m just about to start talking terms, when someone behind me catches his eye and a smile bursts across his face like sunshine from heaven.
I turn around to see a supermodelesque woman and a little boy dressed like a miniature hipster approaching. This must be his family. His pupils almost double in size; he must be completely smitten with his wife—and no wonder, she’s foxy. All swish-swash bouncy hair and almond-shaped eyes that take up half her face.
“Daddy!” The kid runs across the store and barrels into his dad. He may be dressed like a minifashionista, but under that flat cap and all that label, he’s kinda dorky.
“Hey.” Roth looks pleased and annoyed all at the same time. “Amy, this is Hendrix.” Hendrix? As in Jimi?
Puh-lease.