SO close to being done with this class, which is a good thing, because my teaching certificate renewal is due by August 31. Yikes. I just have my final portfolio left, and I have everything ready to submit except this last essay (if you can call it an essay). It's the one that I've struggled the most with writing, and I'm still working on titles for each individual fragment. Now that I've actually got 10 of them (some of them better than others, I know... it's harder than you'd think to come up with that many!), I think the best thing would be for me to come back to it in a few days. They are all supposed to be tied to a common theme--can you tell what that is?
It is the last day of school, and even though it is 100 degrees outside, we celebrate. There is a park, a playground, loud music, and pizza. The children outnumber the mothers, fifty to ten, and while the mothers huddle with their babies in the shade, the older children are rejoicing in their summer freedoms with rivers of sweat sliding down their cheeks as they chase, climb, slide. A white truck drives slowly down the pavement, and two men emerge from its doors. We can hear their deep voices as they empty trashcans, and we watch as one of them walks towards the large stone bathroom. Suddenly, we hear a sound, a whoosh, and we look in that direction. There are squeals of pleasure. The sprinklers are on! Two long, glorious strips of cold, misty water; an unexpected delight. The children race to the water. They are dancing and singing and making merry. Some of the mothers, four of us, walk quickly to the water. We leave our sandals on the sidewalk and carefully poke our toes into the cool shower. It is not enough. A look passes between us and we unite, standing taller, more confident, as we grab each other’s hands, spread out across the field, and race through the sprinklers.
Elaine was childless. She was also my Sunday school teacher. The first week I was in her class I couldn’t help but stare at her small, bony frame. She had short, curly hair, large-knuckled, arthritic fingers, and a gravely, gruff voice. I didn’t know what to expect from the eccentric-looking woman, but learned over the years that I did not need to be afraid. I listened and learned about this gray-haired figure who roller bladed and took swimming lessons at the Y. I laughed out loud when I gave her my wedding announcement and, after looking at our engagement picture, she whispered to me that she had heard a rumor that Mexicans made good lovers. I still have the white porcelain bowl that she gave me, and the gray fleece jumper that she sent to my first-born son.
I sit cross-legged on the carpeted floor, slowly combing through my daughter’s long, wet hair. I pause for a moment as I ask her to tell me about her day. She begins the conversation with third-grade gossip: There is an athletic boy named Connor, and the girls at school like him. She whispers, “You can tell if a girl likes a boy when she starts wearing nice clothes to school every day.” She speculates over who would make a good match, and her conversation soon turns to the topic of popularity. The popular girls, she explains, share universal qualities: they are athletic, smart, and everyone wants to be their friend. I put my plastic comb down, an indication that her hair is now tangle-free, and my daughter unfolds her legs to stand. As she struts across the playroom floor, she concludes, “You can tell if a girl is popular by the way that she walks.”
I rush through dinner and hurriedly rinse the dishes. I abandon the children as I skip up the stairs. They rejoice in their mommy-free freedom by watching Netflix or playing wii, and I rejoice in mine by shutting my bedroom door. I yank off the child-stained shirt I am wearing, and replace it with one that is clean, dressier. I reach my hand to the top shelf of my closet and run my fingers over the folds of pants and deftly pluck out my favorite pair of Miss Me jeans. I wash my face and pull a brush through tangled hair. Mascara, a little bit of blush, earrings, a spritz of the perfume my husband presented me for Valentine’s Day. I step up onto the bathtub ledge in order to see more of my reflection in bathroom sink mirror. Turn to the side. That will do. I take a two-step leap into the closet, hesitate as I look at my selection of mom-shoes, and grab a pair of sandals, not flip-flops. I hear my husband’s car pull into the driveway, and seconds later, the front door opens. A glance at the clock—7:45. Time for girls’ night.
There was a woman in Cleveland, Ohio named Sarah. Her husband, a brain surgeon in training, worked long hours at the hospital. They had one child and one car and no money, so Sarah spent most of her hours in the quiet of her home. Tired of the monotony, Sarah decided to start a group, which she called Tea and Topics. She began calling friends, acquaintances, and invited them to come into her home to drink tea and to converse. They would sit around her yellow-walled living room and talk about organic foods, the price of parenting, confidence, and anything whatsoever that was lingering in their thoughts. Over the years, they would share their pasts and learn about friendship and how to be a friend. Now many of the women have moved away, but they share this knowledge with others.
I brought my newborn home from the hospital on a Friday afternoon. Two days later, Sunday, I sat on down to do my five year old daughter’s hair and saw a tiny creature scamper across her scalp. I rushed through the home, stripping sheets from the beds, dumping clothes from the dresser drawers, and scouring every surface. I pushed my mother-in-law out the door, sent my children to school and my husband to work. When they were gone, I locked the doors and pulled the curtains tight over the windows. I refused to answer the ringing phone. For two days, or three, I did this, and spent my hours washing, folding, vacuuming, feeding baby, not sleeping. On Tuesday, maybe Wednesday, there was a knock on my door. Four women stood there, bags of food in their hands. They led me to the kitchen table and fed me lunch, salad and a meat and cheese wrap. Then they escorted me to the sofa, handed me my baby, and commanded me to rest. And I did, hesitatingly at first, while they scrubbed my bathrooms and disinfected my kitchen. They folded my clothes and vacuumed my carpets and mopped my travertine tiles. They opened my curtains and let in the light.
The disagreement started in the kitchen at dusk. Mother, holding the wooden recipe box in both hands, raised her voice, and I raised mine back. Our feet danced slowly from the wooden floor planks through the narrow doorway and into the blue-carpeted living room. The sounds flowed through our mouths, clashing with one another, the words long since forgotten. With a flash in memory, I see my mother throw the recipe box onto the floor; I watch the index cards scatter across the room—an oxymoron in action for that patient woman. There is a suspension of time as I look at her in awe, and she looks at me with confusion. Then, my mother smiles. A laugh tumbles from her lips as she says, “That was silly. Will you help me clean this up, please?”
It was my first outing in public since the miscarriage. A playground date with mom friends. I sat on the rubber ground, my lanky arms circled around my long legs, away from the other women. I was motionless, unable to engage in the conversations around me, knowing that my attempt to form words would sound more like sobs. There is a general movement, a flurry, as a friend rushes up to us, pushing her baby stroller, announcing excitedly that she is pregnant. There is the foggy sound of congratulations going on around me as I look away, straining, silent. Two women, the ones that I have told, quietly surround me, one on the left and one on the right, as they put their arms around me, and together we cry.
We arrived there early, and it was cold. I helped my sister wrap her two-month-old baby onto the front of her body. We walked to the gate that guards the mountain and raised our heads, looking, it seemed, straight up. We eyed each other, nodded. Rene with her baby, and me with the baby supply backpack. A few young men, daredevils without shirts, were walking towards the gate, and we asked them to take our picture. In it, we are still smiling, with sweatshirts still on and hair pulled neatly into ponytails. We began our hike quickly, but quickly slow down. We made it past the first switchback, and then the second, before Rene stopped, begged me to go on without her. I hesitated, urged her on, offered to carry the baby. Finally, I went without her, all the time hearing the sounds of the daredevils in front of me. I slowly made my way, counting each turn, willing my burning legs to continue. I reached the top, stopped to take a drink of water and to snap a picture on my phone. No reception there—I could not call my sister. After a few deep breaths, I started down the mountain, watching my shoes and counting each step. I was halfway back when I heard movement ahead. I looked up to see a lady in blue, a baby wrapped to her chest. Rene! We rested on a large rock for a few minutes, and then stood up, determined to climb to the top together.
She cannot find the bathroom in the middle of the night, and when Mom hears the quiet shuffling, she leads Grandma to the door and waits. The minutes pass, and finally Mom asks if everything is ok. Grandma does not know how to flush the toilet. Later, I will find Grandma crying. Of the few things that she can remember, she remembers independence, and she grieves its loss. My mother helps Grandma get dressed, and then gently braids the white hair of the woman who raised her.
