No Ordinary Life (3 page)

4

I
t's an emotional good-bye, Emily taking it the hardest. She's the oldest and therefore leaving the most behind. Since I told her we were leaving, she hasn't spoken a word to me, her hateful glare telling me all she cares to say.
How could you let this happen to us? To me?

I'm trying
, I want to scream.
I'm doing the best I can.

Molly's most upset about leaving Gus behind. She doesn't fully grasp the concept of us living somewhere else and for that I'm thankful.

Tom pretends to be sad, but a glimmer of hope radiates from his feigned malaise, an anxiousness to get on the road, driven by a thin optimism that things might be different for him in LA, better for him there.

“What about Dad?” Molly asks just before we set off.

“Don't worry, baby, he'll find us,” I say as I pray like hell that Sean shows up and doesn't have a clue where we went, getting a healthy dose of his own medicine and feeling firsthand the decimating hurt of being abandoned and left behind.

I look in the rearview mirror to find Molly's saucer eyes filled with concern, and my hate softens, my daughter's love for her father reducing the vengeful spite to a longing for the truth to be different than it is, for Sean to be a different man than he is, for life to not be so hard, for him to have stayed, and for none of this to have happened in the first place.

We merge onto the 10 freeway, a direct artery from our old life to our new, seventy-five miles of asphalt that might as well be a thousand for how different the world we're going to is from the one we're leaving behind.

“Wiwll Mr. Bo tewll him whewre we went?”

“Yes, baby,” I answer, adding to the long list of lies I've told the kids since Sean left, protective instinct or cowardice stopping me from telling them the truth.

The kids know we are on our own, recognize that I've been working more, understand that money has grown more precious, but there was no blowout fight or emotional family gathering where Sean and I sat the kids down and told them we were separating or getting a divorce, and for the most part we have gone about our lives as if nothing has changed. Their dad left for a trip, but instead of returning a week or two later like he usually does, he hasn't come back. To their questions about when he's coming home, I've given noncommittal answers like,
He's on a really long trip this time
or
I'm not sure
. I've considered telling them a big lie, like he joined the military and is fighting in some faraway land, or even telling them he's dead. But that would only simplify things until the day he shows up very much alive.

And he will show up. I know Sean. It's only a matter of time before he comes back looking for us, either to beg forgiveness and return to the fold or to check in on his progeny while passing through.

I should probably tell the kids the truth, but the truth seems impossible to explain:
Your dad wasn't cut out for this life. He never wanted to get married or have kids—he never wanted you. I tricked him into it by getting pregnant, and he ended up loving you, so he tried, but then it got too hard—you got too hard—so he left.

I hit the brakes to slow down for traffic, and the van sputters and coughs like it has a chronic case of bronchitis. The mechanic explained the problem is a cracked head, which made me imagine him wrapping gauze around the engine and giving it some Advil. Unfortunately the fix is not that simple, and the cost to repair it is more than the van is worth. So each day, I top off the radiator and pray it lives another day, knowing we're living on borrowed time, and that at some point, the head is going to split open, and its brain matter will explode all over the road.

“Wlook,” Molly says, causing me to turn where she is pointing.

On the other side of the freeway, a mother duck waddles across the road, four ducklings waddling behind her as cars swerve and blare their horns to avoid them. Bravely the mother does not take flight. Her feathers ruffle with fear and she honks, but valiantly she continues on, leading her tiny family through the gauntlet. And I wonder if, when she chose her path, she realized the danger or if, like me, she was oblivious, but now she's in it, halfway across the road and with no choice but to trudge on, to lead them as best she can, hoping and praying they make it to the other side.

5

M
y mom and I are in the hallway outside her condo. She's been going at me nonstop for the past twenty minutes.

“…so you stick your head in the sand and pretend it's all okay?” she says.

I haven't seen her in a year, but the woman doesn't age—not a thread of silver in her blond hair, her light skin lineless. At some point, I'm certain I will catch up to her, and we will look more like sisters than mother-daughter—her, the older, stronger, more competent, better-endowed sister—me, the younger, less capable sister whose body and life never filled out the way everyone thought it would.

“Did you even try to track him down, get him to give you some money, garnish his wages? You know there are groups that do that, track down deadbeat dads…”

The kids are inside catatonically plugged into the television. No dog, no orchard, no yard, nothing to do. We've been here half an hour, and already they're bored out of their minds.

I focus on my breathing, in and out, reminding myself of the sacrifice my mom is making by taking us in. And when that no longer works, I tell myself that this is for my kids and that I would walk over red-hot coals for my kids, that I can do this.

“Have you even filed for divorce? Or what, Faye, are you still pining away for him, waiting for him to come back and take care of you? What were you going to do if he showed up, welcome him back with open arms?”

No. No. No. No.

No, I did not try to track Sean down because I know exactly where he is. He's shacked up with Regina, a woman he met in Albuquerque. No, I did not try to get him to give me money. I didn't feel like wasting my breath. No, I did not have his wages garnished. He owns his own rig, good luck with that. No, I have not filed for divorce. Divorce is for people who can afford a lawyer.

Yes and yes.

Pathetic as it is, yes, for months after he left, I prayed he would come back, and, yes, I would have welcomed him home.

My mom can't understand this. She never had to go it alone, went straight from husband one to husband two to husband three, then she had me and her marriage to my dad stuck. She has no idea how overwhelming and scary it is to be on your own with three kids to support.

At first you think your anger will sustain you, but it doesn't. It wears out quick, and you get tired, the kind of tired that makes your bones hurt and your mind numb until you feel like you're a hundred instead of only thirty-two—so done in that you can't imagine continuing the way you're going. And that's when the fear sets in:
What happens if I don't hang in there or if something goes wrong? I'm all they've got, just me, and there's no way I can do this. I'm going to fail. Then what?

So, yes, you start to miss him…
him
, the one who caused this, but also the one who created this. The one who made promises you believed, words you staked your life on, vows to love and cherish—a dream faint but remembered. The one who looked at you adoringly when you delivered his first child, his lips grazing your forehead as he whispered,
Well done, we'll name her Emily because the name is as beautiful as her mother.

My mom continues on with no sign of slowing, the rant saved up since I confessed to her two months ago that Sean had been gone three months. “For whose sake?” she says. “The sake of appearances? Who are you trying to impress—your neighbors, the school, me? You think we're all sitting around judging you? Or is it because you still want to be right, too stubborn to admit that Sean turned out to be exactly the loser I knew he was? I knew it the moment I met him, spineless, worthless. How you ended up with him…”

Perhaps walking over red-hot coals would be preferable to standing here like a five-year-old being scolded by my mother. At least it would be quicker. I return to counting my breaths, silently congratulating myself after each one I manage without detonation, wondering what sin I committed in some past life that condemned me to such harsh penance, because being forced to live with my mom is certainly too severe a punishment for anything I've done in this life.

“Or maybe that's not it at all, and instead it's exactly what it's always been with you, you're just muddling your way through the way you always do. No plan, just bebopping along whichever way the wind takes you, things always happening to you instead of you making things happen. It's not like how you end up pregnant is a mystery, yet you're surprised every time…”

I nod. I married Sean at nineteen because I was pregnant with Emily. Three years later, life already hard, I got pregnant with Tom. Then four years after that, Sean, who was already taking more trips and staying away longer each time, came home vowing to make things right, a promise that fell apart almost immediately but lasted long enough for me to end up pregnant.

She's right, I'm an idiot.

6

W
e survived the night, and this morning I'm determined to take control of my life. And to do that, I need money.

“Come on, kids,” I say after a quick breakfast of Cheerios, the only breakfast food in the house. Food has never been high on my mom's priority list, and if I don't get a job quick, I'm a little concerned we might starve.

“Whewre we going?” Molly says, sliding off her chair and pulling on her Crocs, clearly excited to be leaving the confines of the condo.

Tom stands as well but looks less than enthused. New experiences don't suit him well, and meeting new people doesn't suit him at all. Bo taught him to think of it like a throwdown, one move at a time, don't get too ahead of yourself. I see him doing that now. Stand up. That's all. One move.

Emily remains in her chair, her arms crossed.

“Coming?” I ask, challenging her, my sympathy used up. My fault or not, she's being a little skunk, and for all I care, she can stay home and brood.

“Come on,” Molly says, yanking on Emily's crossed arms.

Emily allows her sister to pull her from the chair. The truth is, she's as antsy to get out of the condo as the rest of us, and Molly just gave her the excuse to give in.

As if releasing the strings of a corset, the moment we're back in the van, I exhale. If I keep this up, I'll die of asphyxiation before the first week is through. The van is like a haven, the closest thing to a home we still have. If I could afford the gas, I'd simply drive around, enjoying the reprieve, but the tank hovers near empty, and if I don't get a job, it's going to stay that way.

My prospects for employment are limited. I have no degree and no experience outside waitressing. The problem with this occupation in LA is that every out-of-work actor is a server or bartender, making restaurant jobs as rare as openings for a bugle player at the racetrack.

I drive to the place where I have the most chance of success, the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica, the highest density of restaurants per square foot in the city. Plus, it's an outside mall that doesn't allow cars, so the kids can wait safely outside while I apply for work.

“Great,” Emily says when I tell her where we're going, “we're going to a mall where we have no money to buy anything.”

“Would you rather we turn around and stare at the television all day? I promise this is going to be fun. There are street performers—singers, dancers, clowns, magicians—usually a band or two.”

“A freak show,” she scowls. “That's what Grandma says.”

“Your grandmother doesn't know everything.”

Neither Molly nor Tom participate, already wisely choosing the stance of Switzerland, both remaining silent as Emily launches barbs and I bat them away.

Parking is a nightmare and costs a small fortune. The parking structure is full, so we park in a metered spot on the street that costs two dollars an hour. I deposit four dollars and check my watch. We have until 12:02.

Despite Emily's determination to be a grouch, her sour mood lightens the moment our feet hit the promenade. Like the circus or an amusement park, there's a carnival atmosphere and a sense of adventure, the unexpected lurking in front of us—music, voices, chimes, cotton candy, churros, ice cream—all of it floating in the air, all of it only moments away.

We've just started when Tom tugs at my shirt and points. My heart clenches knowing his voice has disappeared, but I brush away the feeling, determined not to let the “cat” interfere with our day. Following his finger, I see a man sitting on a box in front of a trash can holding two bushy branches in front of him. He blends into the background and is so still that, had Tom not pointed him out, I would have missed him completely.

It doesn't surprise me that Tom saw him. Tom notices details the way a blind man compensates for lack of sight with highly attuned hearing. The rest of us are so busy talking or thinking about what we're going to say that we miss things, but Tom sees and hears it all.

I hold the kids back, allowing two girls in their twenties to walk ahead of us. One texts as the other window-shops, each of them carrying a shopping bag swinging at their side.

When they're a foot away, the man extends the branch in his left arm into their path. Cell-Phone Girl screeches, and her phone flies from her hand. Window-Shopping Girl jumps nearly a foot, and her hand shoots to her heart, causing her shopping bag to fly up and smack her in the face.

Both bust up laughing when they realize they were ambushed by the famous Third Street Promenade bushman, and Window-Shopping Girl fishes into her purse and hands the man a dollar.

Molly claps with delight and says, “I want to be scawred.”

Tom grins ear to ear, and Emily's face is lit up. It's the first happy moment of our new life, and I savor it.
We can make happy out of anything
. It's a phrase my dad used to say.

I give Tom a high-five for spotting the stalker. Not only would I have hated being scared, but I would have hated giving up a dollar for the privilege.

We've canvassed nearly two-thirds of the promenade, and I'm starting to feel desperate. There are no jobs. Things may improve in a few weeks when it's closer to summer and the busy season, but right now is slow and no one is hiring.

I check my watch. Twenty-two minutes remain before our meter runs out. We need ten minutes to walk back, leaving twelve minutes, enough time for one more rejection.

“Last one,” I say. The kids don't even acknowledge my departure. Emily is looking at bracelets on a jewelry cart. Tom stands beside her watching the people. Molly is doing little he-man dance squats to the beat of a band playing nearby.

I walk through the door of a restaurant called Namaka, Exotic Cuisine, and as soon as I walk in, I know this isn't the place for me. Cumin and curry—the overwhelming smell of the Indian spices makes me want to gag.

Growing up, I ate all kinds of food. My dad loved to cook. We didn't have money to go to fancy restaurants, so he made fancy food at home. I liked all of it except for Indian food.

I pivot to leave when a voice stops me. “Welcome,” it says in a nasally tone that makes me want to run instead of walk out the door. Painting on a smile, I turn back.

The man is dark and little and wears a false smile too big for his face.

“I was wondering if you have any job openings,” I say, hoping for a quick rejection so I can squeeze in one more restaurant before our meter runs out.

“You experience?” It isn't said with so much an accent as an abruptness, as if he doesn't have the patience for verbs.

I nod.

He runs me over with his eyes. “Fine. Table nine.” With the back of his hand, he gestures toward the patio where two lone customers sit with closed menus in front of them and looks of impatience on their faces.

I blink several times, unsure I heard him. “You're hiring me?”

He squints like now he's not so sure.

“I mean, I'm glad you're hiring me,” I say quickly, “but I can't start right now. Can I start tomorrow?”

He harrumphs, and I swallow at the thought of having just lost the one job I was offered. “Eleven,” he says, then walks past me, his oversized smile beaming as he greets a family of four that has just walked through the door.

“It smells wonderful in here,” the woman says, and her husband dutifully nods.

My new boss walks the family to the patio to join the hungry couple, and I return outside, relieved but unenthused. I do not like Indian food, and I do not like the man who hired me, but it's a job and I start tomorrow. I check my watch. We have two minutes before we need to start walking back to the car.

Emily and Tom are still beside the cart where I left them, absorbed in some sort of puzzle cube, each of them holding one and trying to unravel it.

“Where's Molly?” I ask when I walk up and realize she's not beside them.

Emily looks up from her puzzle, her eyes scanning side to side before swelling in panic. “She was right here.”

Emily and Tom drop the toys on the cart and chase after me as I run person-to-person asking if anyone has seen a little girl in overalls, my heart scatter-firing in panic, the absolute worst feeling in the world. Thousands of people now crowd the walkway, the foot traffic having picked up with the lunch hour. In and out I weave, my eyes searching wildly.

A crowd is gathered around a street performer, a mime. I burst through the huddle mumbling excuse-mes. No Molly. Pushing my way back out, I run toward another group gathered around a band, music thrumming from the center.

A wide black lady with a purse the size of a suitcase shoves me back when I try to push to the front, so I scoot around her to another part of the crowd.

This audience is denser and deeper than the one clustered around the mime, a press of at least sixty people laughing and clapping and making it impossible for me to get through.

“Please,” I cry, “I'm looking for my little girl.”

My voice is tiny in the din of the music, but one man turns. Perhaps fifty with pink skin and a purple golf shirt stretched over a large belly, he smiles then presses his impressive weight against the crowd to create an opening. “That her?” he says, pointing.

Tears spring to my eyes when I see Molly in the center of the crowd, relief flooding my system and nearly sending me to my knees. The man braces my elbow, keeping me upright.

“She's quite a performer,” he drawls.

And sure enough, there she is, center stage, dancing with a very tall black man who is playing a guitar and singing. Actually she's having a throwdown with the man. He does a simple two-step or slide then Molly mimics it.

I have no idea how it started, but the audience is loving it. It's very amusing, a six-and-a-half-foot-tall black dude with beaded dreadlocks laying down smooth dance moves that then a small, pudgy white girl with gold curls imitates. And watching it, it's impossible not to smile. My heart radiates with pride. That's my girl,
my
girl.

Tom and Emily sidle up beside me and are proud as well, all of us beaming as we watch Molly do her Molly thing. Several people in the crowd have their phones out and are taking pictures. I pull out my own antique flip phone and snap a shot as well.

The big man stops playing the guitar and starts clapping his hands over his head, encouraging the audience to join in, and the entire street explodes in unison to sing the ending. Then he pulls the microphone from its stand, holds it down to Molly, and Molly leads the audience in the finale, “…Jowhnny B. Goode.”

The crowd erupts in applause, and the big man gives Molly a high-five. Then Molly skips to the guy playing the drums and they knock knuckles.

She is skipping back when a woman steps forward and hands her something. I rush toward them, but the woman disappears into the crowd before I get there.

“What'd she give you?” Emily asks, hugging Molly against her hip, clearly relieved that Molly was found and clearly feeling bad about losing her in the first place.

Molly opens her hand to reveal a twenty-dollar bill.

“Why she give me money?” Molly asks.

“She must have liked the way you danced,” I say, my heart swollen to bursting.

We race back to the car and arrive to another fabulous relief, no ticket. In a splurge of celebration, I drop another two dollars in the meter, and Molly treats us to ice cream with her twenty dollars. We carry our cones to the beach and for the next hour play in the sand.

Today might just be our lucky day.