Second House from the Corner (25 page)

“Grab Twyla's hand,” I call to Rory while strapping Liv's car seat onto the stroller. The line is long, and I can feel Rory and Two's excitement build as we wait to pay our admission. The five hundred dollars that Preston gave me have dwindled, so I pull out my Amex and cross my fingers that he hasn't closed my account.

“Thank you.” The women slides four metal pins with the museum's logo across the counter and I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Let's go.” I pump my fist in the air like a pirate.

“Where to first?” Rory is bouncing on his heels.

“Let's start with the first exhibit and work our way through.” We make a day of it. The kids go crazy in the Rainforest Rhythm section, and we spend most of our time exploring the sights and sounds of the jungle. The exhibit is noisy for Liv, so I kept her safe in the front carrier, where I snuggle her close and tickle her feet.

“Look, Mommy,” Two calls to me. She is beating the conga drums. To make her laugh I do a little shoulder shimmy and shake my hips like I'm African dancing. Rory has run across the room with a boy he's just met and together they spin the giant rain stick. My heart is light and free. I dance with Two as a few kids pick up drums. Then we all play the forest marimba with a pair of mallets. Next, we pile into a dugout canoe and pretend to paddle down a river. I'm hot and sweaty when we finish but I feel alive, a feeling I've missed.

*   *   *

Once I have everyone strapped into our SUV, I text Preston and invite him to join us for dinner at TGI Friday's on the Benjamin Franklin Parkway. At the stoplight I hear my phone ding with a message from him.

I'll see you tomorrow at 3 p.m.

I bring my attention back to the children, trying hard not to let Preston get in the car with us and spoil my good mood.

I'm surprised when we step into the restaurant and don't have to wait for a table. As soon as we're seated, Two starts wiggling.

“I have to go bathroom.”

“Me too,” Rory adds. “Can I go in the men's room by myself?”

“Absolutely not.”

“But Mama, I'm big enough.”

“Rory, please,” I say, leading everyone to the ladies' room. When we get inside, I make Rory hold Liv while I take Two into the bathroom and scoop her over the toilet.

“Don't let her touch anything,” I call to Rory.

After gathering my troop, we head back to the table. The kids order chicken fingers and French fries with honey mustard. They are happy and distracted. Liv doesn't leave my lap. Her tiny fingers curl into my neck, and she snuggles her face against my chest. When I try to put her in the high chair so that I can eat, she whines and I take her right back out. I can't believe how big she's gotten.

“Can we have dessert?”

“Let's go back to the house and see what Gran has for us.”

*   *   *

Gran is still downstairs when we walk in the door.

“Did you guys have a good time with Mommy?”

“Yes,” they say in unison.

“Where did you go?”

Two gives a full account, while I take Liv to the sofa and change her diaper.

“Gran, do you have a special treat for us?” Rory asks.

“I think I can find something.” Gran slow-foots it into the kitchen. She comes back with a plastic container and bowls.

“Is this ice cream?” Two holds her spoon to her mouth.

“Sure is.”

“This is so good.” Rory talks with the ice cream slurping around on his tongue, and I shoot him a look. “Sorry,” he says, and swallows.

“It's homemade,” Gran says. “Your mother never made you kids no homemade ice cream before?” Her hands find her round hips.

“No, never.” Two swallows. “Do you have an ice cream maker?”

Gran chuckles. “No, baby. Gran does things the old-fashion way.” While Gran chats with the kids, I go through the bag Preston sent and gather their pajamas. None of the pieces match and he didn't pack Two a clean pair of underwear, or socks for Rory.

“Let's go Pudding Pops.”

“Five more minutes.” Two puts up five fingers.

Who did she get that from? “No, now.”

I take the big kids upstairs while Gran gives Liv a spoonful of ice cream. Once I have Rory and Two in their pajamas, I tell them to sit on the bed so that I can go back downstairs and get Liv.

“But we're scared.” Rory looks at me.

“Scared of what? I'll be one minute. Stay together.”

“No, Mommy.”

“Okay, count to fifteen and I promise I'll be back. Ready, go.”

I dash for the baby and back up the stairs before they finish.

“Will you read us a story?”

“Did you bring books?”

“They're in the car,” Two tells me.

“Okay, so I'll make up a story. But first go brush your teeth.”

“Scared,” says Rory.

Honestly, Rory is afraid of his own covers. I walk them down the hall with Liv on my hip while they brush their teeth. Water dribbles down the front of Two's pajama top.

“Uh-oh, I'm wet.”

“It's hot, you'll dry fast. Gran doesn't have air conditioning.”

“I want to sleep next to Mommy.” Rory pushes Two out of the way.

“We're all sleeping together.” I stop the argument before it reaches a brew, and then start the story. Tonight I can't think up an original so I tell them the story of the three little pigs.

We sleep on top of each other, but I am awake. Listening to their ragged, puppy-dog breathing and smelling their sweaty scents, willing the morning to stay far away.

*   *   *

But it comes, like it always does. The kids are all teeth and smiles.

“What's for breakfast?”

I don't hear Gran moving about so I assume it's my turn to cook.

“Let's go downstairs and see.”

I put the television on.

“Can we watch
Nick Jr.
?”

“Gran doesn't have cable.”

“What does that mean?” Two asks.

“It means you have to watch
Sesame Street
.” I put on channel 12.

“Awwww, man. That show is for babies.” Rory pushes back.

I ignore him and head to the kitchen with Liv in my arms. I decide to make oatmeal for everyone, even though I know they'll complain. The clock is racing against me. It's already eleven thirty when the breakfast dishes are cleaned and put away.

“Can we go outside?”

My stomach shuffles a dull but constant churn as I worry over our separation.

“Put your shoes on.”

The kids don't have any toys, so I walk them through the neighborhood for some fresh air.

“How come there's trash everywhere?” Rory asks as we walk up Susquehanna toward Broad Street.

“Because people haven't learned to stop littering.”

“It smells funny,” Two notices.

“Whenever you travel you will experience different types of environments.”

“What's ‘envi-o-met'?”

We walk and talk. The humidity is low but the sun is high. When we pass a water ice stand, I stop and buy them each a treat. I carry them back to Gran's and we drip them all over the front steps. Gran produces some chalk and the kids make pictures on the sidewalk. Time whips around the clock, and before I know it, I have to start packing their things. My movements feel heavy as I prepare for Preston to take my children away.

Gran's house is too small and too hot, so we are back on the front steps eating banana slices and grapes when the Nissan pulls onto Gran's block.

“Daddy!” Two and Rory shout together and I lean over the baby bag and pull out the wipes.

“Let me clean your hands and mouth.”

“Mommy, please come home with us. Please, I beg you.” Two has her hands in the prayer position and I pull them apart and swipe them with the wet wipe.

The car rests in a space a door down from Gran's house. It's the same spot we parked in when I brought Preston home the very first time to meet Gran. I watch Preston. My eyes are starved for his presence and I note every movement he makes. Turning the wheel, opening the car door, the first glimpse of his foot as it hits the tiny Philadelphia one-way street.

Preston smiles at the kids, but his effort to ignore me only gets him across the street. In front of me, he's forced to make eye contact that I nag and pull and suck on until he drops his eyes.

“How are you, Felicia?” He says my whole name, formal, like he's a collector picking up a debt.

“Better. You?”

“No comment.”

“Would you care to stay for dinner? Gran is frying chicken. Thighs.” My voice tilts toward him with hope. “She's soaked them all night in buttermilk.”

His face softens a bit. “As tempting as it sounds, we need to get back. The kids have camp tomorrow. Rory has a project due.”

My head hurts. “How come you didn't bring it? I would have helped him.”

“It's cool,” he says breezily. “Come on, kids, give Mommy a kiss.”

“Mommy, I want you to come.” Two stands, her feet spread apart, face determined.

“No,” Preston answers for me. “She has to help Gran.”

My heart rams into my lungs and I run my finger over my nose to remind myself not to cry. I've made it easy by having their clothes at the door. I do not want them in the middle of this.

Preston grabs the bag and tells the kids it's time. Rory wraps his arms around my neck, Two around my waist. I'm already holding Liv in my lap. Preston looks away. Then Rory cries, Two cries, Liv cries, like they are all wired to the same tear system. I pull them all in close to me. My tears are folded behind my lids and I will them not to trickle. We will have all night to bask together at my pity party. Tomorrow, too. Maybe forever.

“I'll be home soon, guys. Okay, please be good.”

“But I don't want Juju. I don't like her,” wails Two.

“Me either. I want you, Mommy. I want you.” Rory holds me so tight I almost tip over.

Preston stands with a lost look on his face. I take pity on him, hand the baby to him, and take both kids by the hand.

“Sweetie pies, I'll be home soon. Very soon. You trust me?”

They nod.

I lean in closer and whisper in their ears. “I promise.” I kiss them each ten times on the lips, and then I do the same thing to Liv. When I lift my head from the car, Preston is standing next to me. I can smell his familiar scents. Dove soap mixed with the Caliente man body butter I bought him from Pooka Pure and Simple. He knows what that body butter does to me and I wonder if he's sending me a mixed message. Or worst, teasing me. I close the car door.

“You smell nice.”

“It just happened to be in my travel bag from the trip to—”

“Vermont,” I finish. It was our anniversary getaway a few months back without the kids and we stayed holed up in the king-size bed and jet tub the entire three nights. “Seems like ages ago.”

“I don't think I want to be married anymore,” he blurts.

My breath catches. “What?”

He holds the key to the Nissan out to me, and an envelope. I can see the color green peeking through the thin paper with his assistant's curvy script spelling out Felicia Lyons. Delivered like I'm just one of the others on his payroll.

As the items travel from his hands to mine, our fingers touch. Neither of us moves. I look up at him and he's looking at me. The lovely man I fell in love with, the face that I could spend my day gazing at, is a jumbled, broken mess.

“Why,” he says. It's not a question, more of an acknowledgment. He gets behind the driver's seat, starts the car, and pulls away. The kids are frantically banging on the back window and I stand in the middle of the street waving until he gets to the end of the block and turns the corner.

I can't bear going back inside my hot prison, so I walk in search of the answer to the question he didn't ask.

 

THIRTY-FOUR

The Reason Is Not the Answer

I move west on Dauphin until I reach Eighteenth Street. Eighteenth runs me into Diamond, and I pause in front of the Church of the Advocates. It's one of the most splendid churches I've ever seen and the best American example of Gothic revival. The lavish architectural sculpture, stained-glass windows and flying buttresses seem more appropriate for a little village in Europe than North Philadelphia, but that adds to the promise and beauty. It's the only cathedral of its kind built specifically for the working class, and Gran has been a big fan of how they have served the community for decades.

As a girl, whenever we passed the church, she'd tell me the same story about attending the church's first ordination of women. “It was a moment in history. Eleven women became priests for the first time ever in an Episcopal church. “'Fore your time, gal. Back when we women had to fight for every little thing.” She'd pat my head.

Little did Gran know but I was still fighting, just in a different way.

I keep going on Eighteenth Street until I reach the corner of Norris, where I run into my alma mater, George Washington Carver High School for Engineering and Science. My fingers curl around the chain-link fence, and I pull myself as close to the school as I can get. Wonderful memories of jumping double Dutch until my hair turned back kinky, eating hot dogs and soft pretzels from Pop's food cart, starring in the drama club's production of
Grease
as Patty Simcox, hiding books on my lap, and reading during class when I didn't feel like paying attention. The images swerved through my head as fast as a motion picture.

On my first day as a freshman, I sat in the auditorium on wooden pews for ninth-grade orientation. Our principal, Dr. Travis, peered out into the audience and said, “Look to the person on your left. Look to the person on your right. One of those students will not be at graduation with you.”