Читать книгу Off Her Rocker - Jennifer Archer - Страница 13

Fifteen minutes later, I stand on the curb across the street from the high school my children attended. Classes are in full swing. Vehicles pack the student parking lot. A black Chevy Tahoe pulls into the visitor’s section, followed by a white minivan. Marliss Crocker and Vicky Avery. I remember it’s Tuesday and check my watch. After ten. They’re late for the first PTA board meeting of the year. I know the schedule by heart. Last year and the year before, I chaired the fundraising committee. Since my kids started school, I have served in every position at least twice, including president.

Atop a pole at the school’s entrance, the American and Texas flags billow and pop in the breeze as Marliss and Vicky climb from their vehicles. The greetings they call out to one another, their laughter, drift to me. They meet and start toward the building, side by side.

I feel thirteen again, as if I’ve arrived at my best friend’s house and discovered she’s having a party, and I wasn’t invited. Marliss is president this year. Vicky took over my position. I nibble my thumbnail cuticle. Marliss couldn’t organize a kindergarten homeroom party, and everyone in town knows Vicky’s careless spending habits bankrupted her husband last year. When those two were elected, I almost choked. They’ll squander all the money I worked so hard to raise for the school; I just know it.

Before they enter the front doors, Marliss glances back toward the lot. I scurry behind a car parked at the curb where I’m standing. Too late. She sees me and waves, then turns and says something to Vicky. Pausing to squint my direction, Vicky waves, too. Despite the distance separating us, I see the shock and pity in their expressions as they exchange a glance, then disappear into the building with their heads together.

I kick a tire. Why would they feel sorry for me? Squaring my shoulders, I straighten my wrinkled, coffee-stained T-shirt. So what if I look like I just climbed out of bed? I deserve a leisurely morning now and then, don’t I? I raised my children. I served my time as a volunteer. I’m retired. No shame in that. They’re just jealous that they aren’t free to do whatever they want to do.

Pushing tangled hair from my face, I step off the curb and jog across the street. Maybe I’ll take up running. Buy some of those cute little shorts and spandex tops with built-in bras and sail by here every morning looking toned and lithe and smug while they’re dropping off their freshmen and nibbling a doughnut, sipping their four-dollar five-hundred-calorie lattes with hazelnut syrup and wishing they’d worn elastic-waist pants instead of jeans.

When I reach the corner, a sharp pain stabs into my side and I have to stop to catch my breath. In the past two decades, the extent of my exercise program has been chasing kids, a daily leisurely walk and an occasional Kathy Smith fat-burning video. And the latter only if I had a special occasion coming up, such as a wedding or a class reunion, and I wanted to squeeze into something slinky and impress somebody. The truth is, I’ve been guilty of frequent doughnut and latte breakfasts myself. It’s no wonder that, right now, my throat aches, my shins and calves hurt, and I feel as if I might puke.

Clutching my stomach, I cut across the parking lot, then lean against the building next to a bush, panting. A flash of color on the other side of the window catches my eye. I peek in.

Even though they sit with their backs to me, I recognize all but a couple of the ten or so women inside. My former fellow PTA moms. Why are they meeting in the cafeteria? We always met in the auditorium. Leave it to Marliss to make waves.

I scan the group. Polly, my best friend, sits front row and center tapping a pencil against her chin, her curly dark hair still damp from her shower. Alice Mays sits beside her, still trying to look sixteen. She wears a too-tight spaghetti-strapped tank she probably borrowed from her daughter, short-shorts, tall-wedged sandals and her trademark ankle bracelet that spells her name in tiny silver letters; I see it because she has one leg crossed over the other and she swings her calf back and forth. In the back row, Sherry Pembry is nodding off. Marliss stands in front of the group, facing me, animated as she talks.

The pain beneath my rib cage subsides until only an aching emptiness remains. How did I get here? Forty-six years old, outside my kids’ former high school spying on the women I used to lead. Replaced. Displaced. Dethroned. An outsider looking in at a kingdom I once ruled.

My calf cramps. Cursing quietly, I reach down to rub it and stumble. To steady myself, I press a hand to the window and, when I glance up, Marliss catches sight of me. Our eyes meet. My heart jumps. I step out of sight behind the bush. Leaning back against the building’s cool brick wall, I close my eyes and concentrate on trying not to cry from humiliation.

A minute later, I hear the bush rustle, and open my eyes again. Polly stands in front of me.

“What are you doing, Dana?”

“Would you believe training for a marathon?”

She frowns.

“How about that I’ve hired on to wash these windows?”

Her brows arch.

“I didn’t think so.” I sniff and nibble my lip. “What are y’all talking about in there?”

“Ways to raise money for new lockers.”

I stand straighter. “Volunteer to find sponsors and I’ll do it for you. You know I’m good at that. The best.”

“Dana…” A sympathetic, concerned expression replaces Polly’s frown. “I’ve already volunteered to head up the back-to-school bake sale.”

“I’ll help you.”

“Why would you want to do that? Don’t you know how lucky you are to be through with all this?” She motions toward the building. “When my time comes, I’m going to enjoy doing nothing for a while.”

“That’s what I thought, too. Doing nothing gets old really fast, believe me.”

“But at lunch the other day you said—”

“I lied. I didn’t want anyone to feel sorry for me. I’ve cried every single day Troy has been gone. I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m completely and utterly pathetic.” I burst into tears.

Polly hugs me. “Do something just for you, for a change. You’ve earned the right.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Start a business. Get a job. Really run a marathon.” She steps back. “Give yourself some time. It’s only natural you’d be having a tough few weeks. You devoted yourself to those kids. Every day will get better, you’ll see. You’ll figure out what to do.”

My lower lip quivers. “I miss all this.”

“You’re only remembering the good stuff. You’re forgetting the aggravation.”

“Being a mother is the only thing I know how to do.”

“That’s not true.” She looks astounded that I would think such a thing. “You have a lot of talents.”

“Name one.”

Polly blinks rapidly. “You—” A short, sharp laugh, then she says, “You’re being silly.”

“You can’t think of anything.” I squint at her.

“Of course I can. But I need to get back to the meeting right now.” She takes my arm and tugs. “Go home. Make a list of all the things you’ve always wanted to do but didn’t have time for, then pick one.”

I wipe my eyes with the back of one hand.

“I’ll call you tonight,” Polly yells as she walks away.

For a full minute, I remain behind the bush, my arms at my sides, my gaze on my new Cole Haan sneakers. She couldn’t think of anything. My best friend could not come up with one single thing I’m good at.

On the walk home, I detour to the elementary school both Taylor and Troy attended. Small children are at recess. Settling on a nearby park bench, I listen to their squeals, their laughter. Watch them run and skip and climb on the playground equipment.

I miss my little girl and little boy. As much as I love my grown-up children, I mourn the loss of the kids they were. I miss their bright smiles when they would look up and see me enter a room. I miss the days when Troy talked my ear off and I didn’t have to bribe Taylor Jane with money to interest her in spending time with me. I miss being wanted, being needed.

Was life as simple and fulfilling back then as I remember it? Or, as Polly suggested, am I forgetting all the aggravation?

Leaving the park bench, I head for the sidewalk, still watching the children play.

“Is she a stranger?” I hear a tiny voice ask and turn in time to avoid running into a young woman who escorts a child toward the school building.

I duck out of their way. “Excuse me.”

Wariness clouds the woman’s eyes as she scans me from head to toe, and I realize how I must look: swollen eyes, slight limp, uncombed hair and wrinkled clothing.

“Is she, Mommy?” The little boy gawks at me over his shoulder as they pass.

“Yes, Cody,” the woman answers in a hushed tone, hurrying him along. “And we don’t talk to strangers, remember?”

Squaring my shoulders, I limp toward the street on my throbbing calves. In less than an hour, I have been reduced from a smug and admired marathon runner, at least in my own mind, to a person small children should avoid.

Mother’s powder-blue Cadillac pulls to the curb outside the front of my house when I turn the corner onto my street. She climbs out, looking like an ad for Talbots, crisp and tailored, every highlighted hair in place. “Where’ve you been?” she calls to me.

“Walking.”

She meets me center-yard, hugs me. “I say this with love, darling. You look like hell.”

“Thank you, Mother. That’s just the look I was striving for.”

Following me to the door, she says, “Seriously. I’m worried.”

“About me?” Surprised and oddly pleased, I pull my house key from my pocket. “Don’t be.”

“Carl needs you, Dana. He’s at the prime of his career. This is no time for a meltdown.”

So she’s worried about Carl. I should’ve known. “He’s fine, Mother.” I open the door and we walk inside. “And I’m not melting down. Even if I were, he’s so busy right now with work, I doubt he’d notice me dripping.”

She settles at the kitchen table, lights a clove cigarette, sizes me up. “You should fly to Colorado Springs and stay at the Broadmoor, pamper yourself at their spa for a week. A wife sometimes needs to take a bit of quality time for herself in order to give her best to her husband.”

“What 1955 guide to wifely duties did you read that in?”

“I mean it.” Mother props her elbow on the counter so that the smoldering cigarette tip points up at the ceiling. “You’re the one who needed a weekend at the Mansion. Not Taylor Jane and that long-haired, freeloading flake she married.”

“At least Mooney has a job. That’s more than I can say for Taylor.”

“Mooney.” Mother huffs, then mutters, “Dear God in heaven.” She takes a drag.

Myra emerges from the adjoining utility room carrying a basket of clean laundry.

Mother greets her with a nod and a half-assed smile.

Myra grunts and leaves the room.

I notice the blinking red light on my phone answering machine and push Play.

“You have two messages,” a robotic voice informs me, followed by a beep, then Carl saying, “It’s me. I have to take a prospective client to dinner tonight. Peter Celine. Celine Designer Shoes out of L.A. I know you’ve heard of them.”

Who hasn’t? I’ve ordered from their catalog many times. And Taylor probably keeps them in business.

“They’re bringing stores into this area soon. Cross your fingers I land the account. It’s big bucks. Don’t wait up.”

Another beep, then a voice says, “Mom, it’s me.” Taylor yawns. “I’m sorry I was such a bitch this morning. I started my period. If you really want to go with Elaine and me, you can. She’s meeting me at Wall Trends at 1:30. My car is on empty, so pick me up at 1:15.”

“Where did that child learn to use such language?” Mother asks.

“From listening to you, most likely.” Scooping yesterday’s mail off the counter, I shuffle through it. “Why don’t you go shopping with her and Elaine? I’m not in the mood anymore.”

“You’re asking me to drive through your son-in-law’s neighborhood?” Mother feigns a shudder. “No, thank you very much. I value my safety and my hubcaps.” Her mouth pulls into a thin line as she drags my half-empty coffee cup across the counter toward her. “Besides, I’m still not speaking to Taylor Jane.” She flicks ashes into the cup. “I may never get over her marrying that grease monkey. He has a tattoo, for heaven’s sake.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“On his shoulder blade. A dragon or some other such nonsense. I saw it when they were swimming over here one day when you weren’t home. What on earth has gotten into that daughter of yours?”

Lust, I think, but say, “I believe it’s called love.”

“Love.” Mother huffs again. “Ridiculous.”

I sit in the chair across from her and begin untying my shoes. “Daddy had a tattoo, or have you forgotten?”

Her rigid mask slips, and I glimpse the softness behind it, the hidden side of my mother I wish she allowed other people to see. “That’s different. Your father was in the navy.”

“Well, Mooney’s not a grease monkey, he’s a musician.” I stress the word like Taylor does, trying to convince myself as well as Mother. “Rock-and-rollers have tattoos these days. And he works at Home Depot sweeping sawdust now, not at the oil-change job.”

Scowling, Mother studies her fingernails. “Janet’s daughter Lynette asked me to have you call her.”

“Lynette Ames?” Janet is my mother’s lifelong best friend. Lynette is Janet’s daughter.

“It’s Yancy, now.”

“As in Mrs. Gregory Yancy the neurosurgeon? I didn’t know he and his first wife split.”

“Lynette made her move before the ink on the divorce papers dried. She’s a very sharp girl.”

The words gold digger come to mind as I remove one shoe and start untying the other. “I can’t remember the last time I saw her.”

Whenever it was, it hasn’t been long enough. Ever since we were little girls, Lynette has made it her mission in life to one-up me. First, she had to have the bigger toy, then the bigger bra and the better grade. Next came the more popular friends and studlier boyfriend. Later, the more prestigious college, followed by the fancier house and richer husband. She has had three of those.

“What does she want?” I ask.

“To invite you over tonight, I believe.”

“Why? Does she have something new she wants to rub in my face?”

“Lynette’s youngest went away to school last year. She understands what you’re going through. She was very sympathetic when I told her what a mess you are right now.”

“Thank you for doing that,” I say sarcastically. “No doubt she wants to see for herself and gloat.”

“Why do you have to be so suspicious of her? She’s reaching out to you.”

“She’s treated me like crap for years. Especially when we were in school.”

“Maybe she wants to make amends. Call her. Whatever she has planned for tonight, go. It will be good for you to get out and socialize. And it would be a coup for Carl’s business if you eased into the Yanceys’ social circle, anyway. Besides, Carl’s working late. What else do you have to do this evening?”

“Nothing, Mother.” I reach for an apple in the bowl that sits center-table, imagine throwing it at her but bite into it instead. “Thanks for reminding me.”