Best Kept Secret (12 page)

M
ama!” Charlie yelled from
the bathroom. “Come
wipe
me!”

I sighed as I stood in the kitchen on a chilly spring morning, picturing my four-year-old son in front of the toilet, palms flat on the cold, green tile and his tiny, naked bottom stuck up in the air. “Coming, baby,” I called out. “Mama just needs to take out the garbage.” I heard the truck rumble just down the street and knew I had to be quick. The recycle truck only came twice a month, and if I missed today, the bin would overflow.

I grabbed the blue recycle bin I kept beneath my sink, ready to lug it outside, when the noisy clanking of glass stopped me. I looked down and quickly counted the bottles—
two, four, six, eight . . . what the hell?
I kept counting.
Fifteen?

I didn’t want my neighbors—or the sanitation workers, for that matter—to see how many bottles I’d gone through in two weeks. It seemed to happen the same way I cut away slivers from a pan of brownies, telling myself,
I’m only having a tiny bit—really, it’s not that much.

But now I had to get rid of the evidence. I hurriedly padded each bottle with newspaper, shoved them deep into the regular garbage can, and rolled it out to the curb, happy to have stumbled upon such an easy solution.

“Mama!” Charlie screeched from the front porch, where he now
stood naked, cupping his genitals with both hands while hopping up and down.

I raced up the stairs. “Get inside, Mr. Man. No naked boys on the porch.” It was hard for me to believe he would be five in just a few months; he was already almost as tall as my waist.

“How come?” He giggled.

I smiled. “It’s the law. Now, shoo.”

He complied, and shot back down the hallway to the bathroom. “Didn’t you clean yourself up?” I asked, shutting the door behind me.

“Nope!” came his cheerful reply.

I sighed again.
Ah, too much to hope.
I joined him in the bathroom. “You know, you’re getting to be such a big boy,” I said after I finished helping him. “You can do this.”

“Nuh-uh. You do it better.” He grinned. “Let’s go play.”

“Clothes first, mister.”

I helped him dress, too, and then spent the next hour lying on the living room floor, rolling the same bright orange Hot Wheel Corvette back and forth for what seemed like the nine hundredth time in a row. I tried not to think that what I really should have been doing was trying to write something that might actually make us some money.

I’d all but given up on freelancing; I had a hard time concentrating on anything for more than a few minutes at a time. Coming up with query letters and article outlines overwhelmed me.
I’m just exhausted,
I told myself.
Once I start sleeping better, I should be able to get back in the swing of things.

Until then, I managed to spit out short pieces for websites like
About.com
or CareerBuilder, mining old articles I’d written on how to ask for a raise and reslanting them to how to ask for a raise in a downsized economy. E-zines like this didn’t pay much—some not at all—but it was enough to at least help get us by. Each month I reluctantly pulled out just enough money from savings to pay the
mortgage, utilities, and my health insurance, sickened by the shrinking balance. The months I didn’t sell an article, I used credit cards to pick up any slack. When those bills came due, a heavy panic swelled in my chest as I made the minimum payment, which I knew wouldn’t even make a dent in what I owed. Just thinking about skyrocketing interest rates as I tried to play with my son brought on the same feeling.

I jumped up from playing with my son. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

“Okay, Mommy,” Charlie said, intent on smashing two Mack truck grilles against each other in a head-on collision.

I zipped down the hall and into the kitchen, knocked down two swallows of merlot—the last from the bottle I opened the night before. I walked back into the living room.

“Want to go to the store with Mommy?” I asked Charlie.

“What are you going to buy me?” he asked, leaping to his feet.

I laughed. “I’m going to buy you lunch,” I told him, ruffling his hair with my fingers. “Whatever you want from the deli, okay? I don’t feel like cooking.” I slipped on my flip-flops and made a silly face at Charlie, who giggled, crossed his eyes, and stuck out his tongue at me.

I loved this moment. It was the one I was always trying to reach. I was happy, Charlie was happy. After the wine, everything in my body felt loose, like it was saturated with oxygen and massaged into a deep state of calm.

We hopped in the car and drove the few short blocks to the store. “Can I ride in the cart?” Charlie asked as we approached the entrance.

“Sure, baby,” I said. I typically made him walk. “Hop in.” I tucked my fingers into his armpits and lifted him up, struggling a bit to get his feet through the holes in the cart. “You’re getting to be such a big boy. Almost too big for this.”

“No, I’m still a baby,” he said, and jammed his thumb into his mouth. “Th-ee?”

“Oh, do I have to buy some diapers, too?” I asked playfully.

“No,” Charlie said. A chuckle rolled beneath the word. He pulled out his thumb and wiped it on my forearm.

“Ew!” I said, pretending to be horrified. “Charlie slime!”

He giggled again and we headed to the deli.

“I want chicken bones,” he said, pointing to the hot food section under the glass.

I scrunched up my eyebrows. “You want what?”

“Chicken bones.” He shook his finger in the same direction, and I realized what he meant.

“Oh, you want fried chicken? The legs?”

He nodded.

“You got it.” I had the deli counter clerk bag up a twelve-piece meal, including six legs, mashed potatoes, coleslaw, and biscuits. I gave his nose a little tweak. “You want some ice cream, too?”

He looked at me with wide eyes. “Really?”

“Why not?” We hit the frozen foods aisle, where I filled our cart with a few containers of chocolate fudge and strawberry cheesecake ice cream, along with a variety of quick, microwave dinners for the rest of the week. With just the two of us and Charlie’s picky appetite, cooking wasn’t as fun as it used to be.

“Thank you, Mommy!” he said when I added an economy-size bag of frozen Tater Tots to our other purchases.

“You’re welcome, sweetie.”

“Can I have chips, too?” he pressed. “Wrinkles?”

I cocked my head to the side, confused. “Wrinkles?”

Charlie sighed, impatient with my obvious ineptitude. “The potato chips with all the bumps, Mom. You know. The kind you like with the yucky onion dip?”

I racked my brain for a moment, until it dawned on me. “Oh! You mean Ruffles?”

“Yeah, Ruffles. That’s what I
said
.”

I laughed. “No, you said ‘wrinkles,’ kiddo. But that’s okay. I think
that’s a better name anyway. I think we’ll skip them this time, since we’re getting ice cream. Okay?”

“Okay!” He threw his arms around my waist. His small hands pushed flat on my lower back; his face pressed into the swell of my belly. “I love you, Mama,” he said, his voice slightly muffled.

“Oh, baby. I love you, too.” My heart began to beat a little more quickly; I suddenly felt a little anxious about getting back home. On the way to the cash register, I flipped the cart down the wine aisle. The inside of my mouth was parched, like I’d been chewing on a wad of cotton.

“You have to get more wine?” Charlie asked in a quiet voice.

“Just a little bit,” I said. “I’m all out.”

“And you need to relax.” He looked at me, questioning. “Right?”

“Right.” I snatched two bottles of my favorite cabernet and merlot mix, thinking those would last me at least until the next night. Setting them in the cart, I clapped my hands together once and smiled at my son. “Let’s go home and play some more,” I said.

“You’re too tired to play with me after your wine,” he said reproachfully.

I swallowed back the ache in my throat. “I won’t be. I promise.”

When he didn’t answer, when he wouldn’t even meet my gaze, I told myself I had imagined the disappointment weighting his voice when he asked if I needed more wine. I convinced myself he was still happy, that his smile hadn’t vanished because of me.

A
fter complying with Jess’s
order to stay at her house overnight, I’m hunkered down in her guest room, snuggling with my son. Following the controlled chaos of a tomato-sauce-laden lasagna dinner, Charlie and I changed into borrowed pajamas—he in one of Jess’s T-shirts and me in one of Derek’s—then crawled into bed. I curl around Charlie in the exact manner I used to wrap myself behind my sister. Big shrimp, little shrimp. His butt is pushed into my belly and his fragile spine rests against my breasts.

“You’re all squishy, Mommy,” he said when we first climbed beneath the covers. He wiggled against me, adjusting to find his comfortable spot.

“Is that a good thing?” I asked with a warm smile. I’m pretty sure my son is the only male on this earth who could call me “squishy” and not only get away with it, but have it make me happy.

He nodded. “For mommies, it is.” He closed his eyes and let out a long breath, a spinning top finally winding down.

“Well, thank you, then,” I said. “Hey, baby boy?”

His eyelids lifted a bit, but didn’t open all the way. “Mm-hm?”

“I’m really sorry I snapped at you today.” I kissed the back of his soft head. He smelled faintly of Johnson & Johnson’s baby shampoo and the fudge pop Jess fed the boys for dessert. I’m out of practice at the tasks of motherhood; I forgot to make him brush his teeth.

“ ’S okay. Everybody gets mad sometimes,” he mumbled, and something inside me that had been held captive suddenly lifted and was set free.

How is it that he knows this, at five?
I wonder after he falls asleep.
How is it so easy for him to forgive and let go?
He didn’t learn this from me—or his father, for that matter. Maybe it’s something we’re all born with, this ability to accept another person’s failings and imperfections without lingering contempt. Maybe harboring resentment is an environmental hazard, habitual pollution absorbed into our blood. I wonder if I could get some kind of emotional transfusion. Out with the bad blood, in with the good.

I sigh and my gaze travels through the darkened air around me. The guest room in my sister’s house is small, with space enough only for a double-mattress-size Hide-a-Bed couch and a tiny nightstand with a lamp. The door has to be shut before opening the bed; if it’s not, privacy while sleeping becomes a logistical impossibility. Two of the walls are built-in bookshelves; a small, porthole-style window lets the moonlight spill in from the night sky to pool on the hardwood floor.

We are used to this bed, Charlie and me. We spent many nights here when Martin and I first separated. The quiet in my own house was deafening. I needed the ordinary rhythms of a household—the sound of a toilet flushing, the low murmur of Jess and Derek’s voices to help lull me to sleep.

At the time, anxiety gripped my every breath. My mind spun on its side—an engine stuck in high gear. I regretted every decision I’d ever made. I told myself I should have kept my job at the paper. I never should have married Martin. Once I married him, I should have been a better wife. I should have tried harder to work it out. I should have quit working completely so I could have focused all my attention on being the kind of mother Charlie deserved. I should have been a nicer person so I’d have more friends and a better support system. I should, I should . . .

Oh, how I remember that first swallow of wine.
Relief,
I thought.
Respite.
I didn’t know enough then to realize how false that feeling was, a chemical peace of mind that would turn on me. It silently ran wild in my blood and attacked my best defenses. It was an insidious, habitual process; a sip-by-sip, day-by-day gradual prison built. Once trapped, there was no easily recognizable method of escape. I wandered around, banging against impenetrable walls, no tools to chip away at them, no weapons to fight against this invisible foe.

I have no problem accepting the physical aspect of addiction. I did manage to learn a few things in treatment. I get how the brain becomes addicted to a hit of the pleasure chemical dopamine when certain substances are ingested. Gradually, a tolerance is built to the ingested amount; a person needs more of the substance to get the same pleasurable payoff. I get this. It’s science; it makes sense. I see how it happened with me. Some people’s brains are more easily addicted—our physical chemistry sets us up this way.

What I have a hard time buying into is all the other recovery rhetoric. The admission of powerlessness, the spiritual God crap the Promises staff shoved down my throat the first weeks I was there. Okay, maybe they didn’t shove. Maybe they strongly suggested. They gave me assignments to examine my concept of a power greater than me in the universe and other fluffy, overly emotional garbage. The only way I got through it was to look at these assignments like homework in college—get the work done, do it well, show the instructor I had been paying attention. Use perfect presentation to mask the fact that you find the work you’ve been asked to do totally asinine.

I lie here thinking about this and though I’m exhausted from this day, again, I cannot sleep. Charlie is out cold, his breathing deep and regular, lost to the wild of a little boy’s dreams. I prop my head up with my hand, elbow bent, gazing at my son to try to find my center. His smattering of freckles are perfect pinpoints, minute brown dots above the apples of his cheeks and across the bridge of his button nose. His dark eyelashes are the kind that movie stars pay makeup
artists thousands of dollars to create. I reach to stroke the side of his face with the tips of my fingers, the perfect, smooth warmth of his skin. The muscles in his face twitch and I pull my hand back, afraid I will wake him. It is a miracle I had a part in creating him, this gorgeous little being. He is the sole evidence that his father and I once shared something other than acrimony.