leaden sky. ‘But you know, E, only a baby has the power to make the world a better place simply by existing.’ But then again, they also had a way of sucking up your own existence when you weren’t looking.
‘I feel like opting out of my life right now, E.’ There. I just blurted it out.
‘You just need to get away, Deena. Come see us! For once.’ Elaine had stopped lobbying me to come out there since I’d refused for decades, hating to fly and unable to stretch the maternal ties, but usually claiming timing or money or both.
But now I wanted to go. Sort of. The mere thought of flying sent my blood pressure soaring, and going by car or bus didn’t appeal to me either. If I could only be there without having to get there. That was how I felt about losing weight. And fitness. And menopause.
Transitions. I guess they named the hardest part of giving birth that for a reason.
But then there was also the terrifying thought that even if I got to Madison, what if I didn’t want to come back? I picked up the toothbrush and started scrubbing grout again and told Elaine, ‘I don’t think so. It’s really tight now with Sam’s tuition.’ I pressed the toothbrush under the base of the sprayer, going after a bit of grime.
‘Deena, is it really that tight? Or are you just addicted to sacrificing for your family?’
What was that supposed to mean?
‘Look, come out, we’ll have a girls’ weekend. I’ll pay for it, your trip, some pampering. My treat. It’ll be your birthday slash Christmas present. Let me and Wendy take care of you for a change.’
‘I— can’t. Besides, my birthday and Christmas, as you well know, were both last month, and you already sent gifts for each.’ I knelt on the floor, holding the phone with one hand and the toothbrush in the other. I scrubbed forcefully at the grout between the floor tiles.
‘What are you doing? Are you scrubbing the grout again?’
‘The floor grout. Not the tile grout.’
‘Who cares?! Put down the damn toothbrush! You’re using a toothbrush, aren’t you?’
‘Well, yeah.’ I stood and obediently put the toothbrush in the sink. Still with the phone to my ear, I bent down and glared into the spinner cabinet at Hairy, who was now sitting demurely in the wok.
‘Dammit, Deena-leh! Anyone who cleans with a toothbrush anything other than her teeth has completely lost perspective. I’m worried about you.’
There was another long silence. What could I say? I was worried about me, too.
Elaine finally spoke. ‘So, will you come?’
I couldn’t tell her the real reasons. It was nigh unto impossible for me to justify something like a trip alone. As in, by myself. For myself. Plus, I was scared to fly, scared to travel alone. I didn’t even like walking alone on the lovely mountain trails above my house. Sometimes I wondered if I hadn’t become a little agoraphobic.
‘Deena?’ Elaine’s voice was now tentative, a cupped hand around my vulnerability.
I looked out the kitchen window at the snow beginning to fall. Big, fat flakes. I massaged my temple. ‘I’m sorry, E. I just can’t.’
After we hung up, I stood with the phone in my hand, just staring at it. Finally, I dialed Sam’s cell phone, struggling a bit. I knew the number by heart, but my damn hand was trembling. Ridiculous. He never answered anyway. I imagined him, in the shade of a tree somewhere on campus, stopping to look at his phone, seeing the number of the caller, shoving the phone back into his pocket, striding on. His voice mail clicked on. ‘Hey. It’s Sam. Leave a message.’ I hung up. I was not going to leave another message. I put the phone back into its base.
I really had been trying to give him space, as he’d requested in a lone e-mail. But Colorado to California is a damn lot of space.
The vacuum’s roar was not enough to drown out the voice in my head. Just up and leave. Go spend a weekend with Elaine. Go now! But I was truly afraid. Afraid to fly. Afraid to ask Neil for the money when he was working so many long hours lately. Afraid to leave. Afraid I’d arrive and curl up on a bed in Elaine’s house and not come back. I pushed the vacuum over the plush emerald depths of the carpet, back and forth, back and forth. My thoughts still raced, but I could always count on that huge hum to drown out most everything else: phones, cats, kids, husbands. Lawn mowers worked well, too. And both left those satisfying clean, dark tracks. Like dozens of little fresh starts.
I slowly sank to the floor, the vacuum still roaring. At first the sobs were silent and choking. Then I began to roar right along with the Hoover, my hands clinging to its plastic neck. I didn’t know where it was coming from, this deep animal cry.
I loved my family. Loved them. But, God! What if it was now simply out of habit? An ‘on paper’ love?
I don’t know how long I cried. Exhausted, I flipped off the vacuum and pulled a box of tissue off the end table. I was as swollen and snotty as a post-tantrum two-year-old. If only I’d get a period, maybe these moods would end. But maybe I wouldn’t ever get another one. Although, just when I thought I’d seen the last, a crimson flood would show up at the worst possible time – for instance, the very day I’d tried my first master’s swim workout, and I’d left little pink puddles all the way into the locker room. That had put the kibosh on exercise of all sorts.
I blew my nose and clicked on the TV for something other than my own thoughts. The painting instructor Bob Ross was on PBS. He was even more soothing than the vacuum. Neil used to tease me that I would leave him for either of two men: Mister Rogers or Bob Ross. Both represented the parts of my life at opposite ends of the spectrum of how I defined myself, or didn’t any longer. The former was the equanimous host of the children’s tele vision show ‘Mister Rogers Neighborhood,’ and was known for being encouraging, kind, gentle and an advocate for children. Bob Ross was a soft-spoken TV painting teacher, known for being encouraging, kind, gentle and an advocate for squirrels. Both were gone now. I wondered if I’d reached the age when I knew more celebrities who were dead than alive.
The show was almost over. He had mostly finished his painting of snowy mountains behind a glistening alpine lake. A single pine tree stood sentry in the foreground. The lake looked clear and crisp and … liquid. I could never get water to look like water. At least thirty years ago, when I took that painting class, I couldn’t. Elaine had always said I was good at figures, though. Was good at figures. My artwork of the past few decades had been limited to things like glue-and-glitter pinecones, doily valentines and gingerbread houses. Which, to be honest, I loved every minute of. But now … Where had it gotten me?
As the credits rolled I grew suddenly ravenous. And decisive. The kids would be home in an hour, and until then it was going to be me, a big – no, huge! – bowl of Corn Pops, and Oprah.
It was one of my favorite pastimes, eating cereal and watching Oprah. I sometimes squirmed a bit when she was doing a program on weight loss or exercise, which, of course, she often did. I didn’t care anymore, though.
My Tupperware bowl filled with the golden nuggets of carbohydrate bliss, I settled onto the couch just as Oprah was striding into the studio, gently touching the hands of a few of her many-hued disciples. I wondered if I were ever to go see a taping of the Oprah show whether I’d scream and get all teary-eyed and reach for her holy touch. I hoped not. Well, I’d definitely get teary-eyed. Lately I tear up at everything, and nothing.
‘Today we’re talking about using your life.’ I clicked up the volume on the TV. ‘You-zing your life! You-zing your life!’ I smiled. Oprah loved to emphasize syllables. After the introduction came commercials, during which I channel surfed and ate Corn Pops. I lingered too long on the Weather Channel and was a little late back to Oprah. But I got the gist of it. A ten-year-old girl had started collecting donated suitcases from friends and neighbors for foster kids to use as they went from home to home. A ragtag group of about a dozen kids, every color and size, bore their suitcases proudly as they