Surrender (8 page)

“Will, please eat your cereal faster. We have to get going.”

“Okay, Mom.”

After preparing his lunch, I zipped up his lunch bag then poured two glasses of orange juice. Before I had a chance to drink it, the dryer beeped and I rushed to the laundry room to get my light blue scrubs. I ran upstairs to finish getting ready, cursing myself for forgetting to put the clothes in the dryer the night before.

It was close to seven by the time I came back downstairs, where Will was putting his cereal bowl in the sink. “Ready?” I asked, wetting a paper towel and wiping the milk off his face.

“Ew, it's all wet,” he said, squirming away.

I grabbed him by the collar and inspected his little face. “Do you want to go to your first day of kinderbloom with drool and milk all over your face?”

He shook his head and lifted his face.

“Didn't think so,” I said, and continued wiping him down. “Okay, get your backpack. We have to go.”

We were already five minutes late by the time we got in the car, and we made it to the elementary school with one minute to spare. I had only a few seconds to take his picture in front of the kinderbloom classroom—a prekindergarten class set up for kids who just missed the age cutoff—before the bell rang.

I bent down, giving him a quick hug. “I love you, Will. Have a great first day.”

“I love you, too, Mom,” he said, pulling away and walking into the classroom. I stood at the doorway, watching as the teacher's aide showed him his desk and he immediately struck up a conversation with his classmates. Once upon a time, that near-five-year-old was no bigger than a Cabbage Patch doll, and now here he was, learning and making friends and living a life wholly separate from his mother.

I swallowed down the sadness, taking deep breaths to keep from bursting into tears.

“First kid?” someone asked beside me.

I blinked and looked around, not realizing there were other parents around me going through the same array of emotions.

“It'll get easier,” the woman said with a kind pat on the shoulder.

“I hope so,” I said, though I seriously wondered if that was even possible.

—

“So this guy offered to buy me a drink, but he was one of those creepy guys at the bar, you know, the kind who looks too old to be there?”

I nodded, listening to my friend Naomi's story while I ate my salad. I sneaked a glance at my watch and saw that we had only ten minutes left to our lunch hour. “We have to get going soon.”

“Okay,” she said, putting her trash into the paper takeaway sack. “So anyway, I said no but he kept insisting. Then he followed me around the rest of the night.”

“Why didn't you tell a bouncer?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. I just tried to ignore him. I did meet a guy and we made out, but that was it.”

I studied my coworker, keenly aware of the five-year gap between us. She was still at that stage in her life when she could get away with partying every night and look no worse for the wear. Me—I fell asleep around ten every night, with the remote control in my hand and a half-drunk glass of cheap wine on my nightstand.

“You should come out with me and my friends sometime,” Naomi said as we drove back in my Jetta.

“Yeah, maybe,” I said, not giving it another thought as we pulled back into Gentle Dental, the practice where we worked as dental hygienists.

But Naomi would not let it drop. “I'm serious,” she said later in the afternoon. “I'm going to take you clubbing this Friday.”

“But Will . . .”

“Get a sitter. Done.”

—

At exactly five that afternoon, I rushed out of the office and drove to Will's school, not wanting to go over the five thirty after-school care allowance and have to pay extra.

“What took you so long?” he asked as he climbed into his car seat and buckled his belt.

After I checked that he was properly buckled, I climbed into the driver's seat. “I'm sorry, honey, but this is how it's going to be for a while. I won't be able to get out of work until five.”

“But, Mom . . .”

“We don't have any other choice, Will,” I said, trying to temper my voice. I took a deep breath. “So how was your first day of school?”

Will talked about his teacher and classmates the rest of the drive home. Once at our house, we only had enough time to eat dinner and do homework before he had to take a bath and get ready for bed.

“Mom,” he said as I tucked him in, “can we go back to California?”

It had been nearly a month since we'd come back from Monterey and still he asked the same question night after night. “What did I tell you?”

“No?”

“Why?”

“Because our life is here,” he said, reciting my exact words. “But what if we moved our life somewhere else?”

“Don't you like our life here?”

“I do but it's boring here.” He chewed on his lower lip. “I want to live near Grandma and Grandpa, or maybe near Aunt Elsie.”

I closed my eyes, fighting against the rising frustration. Exhaustion coupled with that emotion that I was desperately trying to put behind me was making me an exposed nerve these days. “I'm sorry, honey. But we're not moving anywhere. Not for a long time,” I said, keeping my tone even. “Surely there's something you like about living here.”

“I guess,” he said with a resigned sigh. “I like my friends and my room. And school's pretty good, too.”

I ruffled his hair. “That's the spirit.” I kissed his forehead, breathing him in. “I love you, kid.”

“Love you, too, Mom.”

After closing the door, I went downstairs and stood in front of the open fridge, the fresh bottle of wine in my sight. Then it occurred to me that drinking alone once again—even if I was drinking only a little bit to relax at the end of a long day—was just so . . . pitiful.

We had made a few friends in Dallas, but we had no family, nobody we could really count on through thick and thin. Nobody to sit and relax with at the end of the day. All we'd done for the past month—for the past few years, really—was stick to our routine and maybe, sometimes, stray outside our comfort zone to find adventure. But more often than not, we spent our weekends at home, doing the same old thing.

Will was right. Our life here was boring.

—

That Friday, I decided that we would try something different. I spoke to Stacy, the mother of Will's best friend from preschool, and she agreed to have him over for a sleepover.

“You sure about this?” I asked her again as I dropped him off that night. “I don't want to impose.”

“Please, you're not imposing,” she said just as Dennis, her son, came careening around the corner, yelling for Will to follow him. “Dennis has been begging me to allow Will to come for a sleepover.”

I crouched down in front of my son, feeling like it was the first day of school all over again. “Have fun on your first sleepover,” I said with a reassuring smile that I didn't entirely feel.

He wrapped his little arms around my neck and squeezed. “Thanks, Mom.”

“If you need me, just call my cell phone.”

“Okay.”

“I'll come get you tomorrow morning.”

He looked away, preoccupied with his friend's whereabouts. “Okay.” He gave me a quick peck on the cheek, bid me good-bye, and took off down the hall.

—

I went out with Naomi and her former sorority sisters that night, to a dance club by the Stemmons Freeway called Zouk. After a long wait outside, when I seriously began to question my life choices, we finally made it inside and made a beeline for the bar; someone ordered a line of tequila shots.

“I'll just have wine,” I told them.

“Come on, Julie, live a little,” Naomi said, handing me a full shot glass. “Tonight you are free!”

I took the shot, feeling anything but free, and downed it with the rest of the women. After the second shot I realized, as my eyesight started to blur around the edges, that I hadn't had a chance to eat dinner. In that moment I was faced with a choice: stop there and live my life barely toeing the edge or just say
fuck it
and act like the single woman I was.

So I ordered another round, then led the way to the dance floor and lived it up, whooping when a good dance track started to play. I closed my eyes and lifted my arms above my head, swaying my hips to the thumping beat, dancing with my new best friends.

After some time, a pair of hands landed on my waist. “Hey, beautiful, you wanna dance?” a male voice whispered by my head.

I knew he wasn't the guy I'd been avoiding thinking about for the past several weeks but I leaned into him anyway, pretending for that moment it was Neal who was holding me close, grinding into my backside.

“You are so sexy,” he said, his hands roaming over my stomach and down my thighs. I should have protested when his palms strayed upward and cupped my breasts over my tube dress, but I was too deep into my fantasy to care. Neal was here, igniting my body with his touch once again, and any moment now he was going to lead me to a dark corner and bury himself deep inside me.

“J, we need to go to the bathroom,” Naomi shouted over the music. I opened my eyes to find her looking slightly horrified at the guy behind me. She grabbed my hand and pulled me away, eliciting a “Hey!” from my Neal proxy.

“What the hell?” I asked once we were in the bathroom.

“Did you see who you were dancing with?” Linda or Larissa or somebody whose name started with an
L
asked.

“Yeah,
dancing
,” Naomi said, putting up air quotes. “He was basically trying to hand-fuck you out there.”

“I was letting him,” I said, leaning against the wall to steady the swaying room.

Naomi gave me this look, a mixture of awed surprise and pity. “If you want to hook up with someone, at least choose a guy who's not so . . .” She looked to her two friends for help.

“Cheeseball,” the other girl whose name I never did catch said.

“Greaseball,” her
L
-named friend amended. “He's the kind of guy who clubs every night, bobs his head around, thinking he's cool.”

“He's Last-Call Guy,” Naomi said.

I nodded, pretending to know what she meant. If I thought hard enough about it, I'm sure I would have understood, but in my inebriated state, all I could think of was how much I missed Neal. His laugh, his face, his kiss . . . his everything.

Tears welled up in my eyes. Never more than in that moment did I feel the effects of my decision to walk away from him. And even though I felt deep down I was doing the right thing, beneath that was another layer: a desire to try again, sure that the next time would be different. Maybe if I convinced him to get out of the military . . .

I shook my head to clear it of cobwebs, dabbing at the corners of my eyes. “This is why I don't date!” I cried out. “I should just stick to booty calls and one-night stands.”

Naomi raised an eyebrow. “In all the time we've worked together, when was the last time you had either one of those?”

“Since my divorce? Not even once,” I said, shaking my head. “And the one time I did, I did it wrong and got too attached.”

Naomi took my hand. “Come on, Jules. I'll take you home.”

“That sounds like a great idea.” I followed her out of the bathroom and waited while Naomi said good-bye to her friends, who were opting to stay.

“It was nice to meet you,” I called out to them and turned to make my way through the room to the exit. My eyes sought out every male face I passed in search of something familiar and warm.

I locked gazes with a man who was different from the rest, who wasn't trying to block my way or trying to grope me. He was just talking to his friend when he happened to look over at the exact right time.

I walked up to him and took his face in my hands. “Kiss me,” I said and pressed my lips to his.

It took him a second to get over the shock before he opened his mouth and kissed me back, eager and willing.

I closed my eyes and tried to feel something, but even pretending didn't bring back those same feelings. This kiss might have been technically good, but it was definitely lacking.

When I pulled away, the guy wore a bewildered smile on his face. “Damn, girl.”

I touched my fingers to my lips, wiping away traces of him. “Nothing. I feel nothing,” I said to myself. I moved in for another kiss and, hopefully, for more, when Naomi took hold of my arm and yanked me away again.

“Girl, you are a mess,” she said as she dragged me toward the door.

I turned back to the guy longingly, wishing I could finish what I'd started. If I slept with him and still felt nothing, then maybe there was hope for me yet.

But I allowed Naomi to lead me out of the club and back to her car, not because I was too drunk or too meek but because, deep down, I really didn't want anybody else.

After a few weeks, Will and I were finally able to figure out a routine so that we weren't always running late. Will seemed happy and thriving at school, even making friends in the after-school program, and all seemed to be going well.

Still, each night after I tucked him into bed, I would sink into the couch with a sigh and wish there were more to life than this.

—

One Tuesday afternoon, while I was sitting with a patient, flossing her teeth, I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket. While the patient sat up to spit in the sink, I quickly checked the caller ID to make sure it wasn't Will's school. The call was from Veronica Jackson, my best friend and fellow dance major back at New York University.

I hadn't heard from her in years. We'd fallen out of touch a few months after I moved to Dallas, when it became too difficult for either of us to carry on the friendship.

That evening, while Will was in the bath, I finally had a chance to call her back.

“How are you?” she asked as soon as she picked up.

“I'm good. And yourself?” I sat on Will's bed, which was adjacent to the bathroom, feeling a sense of nostalgia upon hearing her voice.

“I'm great. Still dancing my ass off, still lighting up the town.”

I smiled, remembering the motto we'd come up with on graduation night, when we'd made a drunken vow to “dance our ass off and light up the town.” God, had that really been almost eight years ago?

“So I hear you got knocked up,” she said, ever straight to the point. There was no beating around the bush with Veronica, a trait that I'd really admired.

“Over five years ago,” I said in amusement.

“And the dad?”

“He died.”

“Oh, shit, I'm sorry.”

“It was a while ago,” I said, an automatic response whenever somebody found out about Jason for the first time, the easiest, most uncomplicated response I could think of.

Veronica was quiet for a moment, probably at a loss for what to say.

“So how are things in New York?”

“Life is good,” she said. “That's actually why I called you. I don't know if you've been keeping up with your dancing, but there's an audition in October for a new production. It's a new Broadway musical and they need a lot of background dancers. I really think you should audition for it.”

My scalp tingled at her words. “I haven't danced professionally in years. I'm so out of shape.”

“You have six weeks to get back in shape. Come on, girl, I know you have a lot of natural talent.”

“Why are you pushing for this?” I asked. “We haven't talked in a long time and all of a sudden you want me to audition?”

“I just know you'd be perfect for it. At least say you'll think about it.”

“I will, I will.”

Later, I mulled over Veronica's words over a glass of wine. It would be a dream come true to start dancing professionally again but even if I did manage to somehow beat out dancers who were younger and more in shape than me, how could I afford to move Will and me to New York City, one of the most expensive cities in the country?

I got to my feet and paced in front of the couch, wondering where I could even practice dancing. The one-car garage was full of stuff, and the living room, of course, had the couch, TV, and coffee table, among other things. I found myself walking through the lower part of the house, mentally eyeing the space. In the formal dining room, my eyes landed on the dining set, which we'd only used maybe twice, as we always ate at the round table in the kitchen.

Struck with an idea, I downed the rest of my wine and fetched my laptop before I could lose my nerve.

—

The dining set sold the very next day. A newlywed couple from Denton drove down with a trailer that night and bought the entire set, including the buffet. When they were gone, Will walked around the empty dining room, scratching his head. “So what are you going to do in this room?”

“Come with me,” I said, picking him up like a football and taking him to the living room. “We're going to move the couch and TV into the dining room.”

“And then?”

I spun us around before setting him down. “Then I'm going to use this room as a dance studio.”

He gave me a dubious look, then pushed at the edge of the suede couch, managing to move it several inches. “Come on, Mom. What are you waiting for?”

—

It took nearly forty-five minutes to move everything into the other room. Will was most helpful with the smaller things, carrying the lamps and my bird figurines with care, while I somehow managed to maneuver the large furniture and rug through the narrow doorways.

When we were done, we collapsed on the couch in our new, smaller living room. “What do you think?” I asked, stroking my toes on the rug that covered the tile floor. “It's not too bad, right?”

“I like it,” Will said. “It's weird.”

“Okay, kid, time for bed.”

He groaned. “Oh, man, I wanted to stay up and watch cartoons.”

I tickled his side. “Not gonna happen, little man. It's already past your bedtime,” I said, pulling his limp body up off the couch. “But thank you for helping me.”

That night, I vacuumed the wood floor of the living room and stuck tile mirrors on one wall. It was nearing midnight by the time I was done and I stood in the middle of the room, surveying the space. It wasn't nearly as spacious as a studio, but it was big enough.

I caught my reflection in the mirror, looking weary in my wrinkled and dusty scrubs, and didn't see a dancer; instead I saw a single mom whose face wore lines of exhaustion. How in the world was I going to get back in dancing shape when I was barely getting by? Still, there was something in that woman's eyes, a drive that burned beneath the layers of weariness, a fire that had been rekindled on a stage in Las Vegas.

Making sure the blinds were all drawn, I took off my scrubs and stood in the middle of the living room in my underwear then pulled my hair out of its ponytail. I performed a quick set of stretches then tried a quick choreography to a song, moving my body until I forgot where I was.

When I danced, I lost and found myself over and over.

By the time I gathered my clothes and turned off the lights in the living room, I was filled with a buoyant feeling, something akin to hope.

And even though I had only a few hours' sleep that night, by the time I woke the next day, I was energized, excited for the hours of the day to fly by, for the time when I could dance again.

—

“Mom, can I dance with you?” Will asked one evening while we waited for the lasagna to heat up.

“Have you finished your homework?” I asked as I sat on the floor, stretching my legs.

“Yep!” He kicked off his shoes and socks then sat on the floor with me, mimicking my moves. “Mommy, I like it when you're happy.”

I smiled at him, though his comment took me by surprise. “I'm always happy. Because I have you.”

“I know, I know,” he said, waving away my comment. “But sometimes you're sad or quiet. But you smile real big when you dance.”

I leaned over to plant a kiss on his nose, never realizing just how transparent I'd been with my emotions. “I'm hoping to become a dancer again,” I said. “There's an audition in New York in two weeks. Do you think I can make it?”

“Yeah, duh! You're the best dancer I know!”

“I'm the only dancer you know,” I said with a chuckle, pulling him to his feet.

“Am I going to New York with you?”

I looked at him sadly, feeling the guilt lodge itself in my chest. It felt like all I'd done lately was leave him. I didn't know if I had the heart to go through with it, even in pursuit of my dream. “I want to take you with me, but nobody can watch you while I dance. So I've talked to Miss Stacy. She'll pick you up from school, then you'll sleep over at Dennis's house. I'll fly right back the next day.”

“Yeah! He's got a PlayStation!” he said, pumping a fist in the air.

“But you have an Xbox,” I said, his reaction lightening the load.

“But not a PlayStation.”

“So I take it you're okay with that plan?”

“Yes.”

But later, as we ate dinner, he asked, “Mom, if you become a dancer, you're not going to stay there, are you? You're coming back to get me, right?”

“Of course I am,” I said, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. “If a miracle happens and I somehow land the job, I'm coming back and then you and I are going to talk about moving.”

It struck me then what I'd just said. I didn't know when the idea of moving had even taken root in my head, but it had sprouted almost overnight. The idea of moving with Will was no longer an impossibility; now it held some appeal.

I danced extra hard that night, even if my muscles were protesting from the paces I'd put them through the past few weeks. I moved with passion, extending my limbs as though I had something to grab, as though I were reaching for my dreams.