Seven Year Switch (2010) (15 page)

BILLY HELD THE TRUCK DOOR OPEN FOR ME AND PUT HIS
hand under my elbow. “Can you make it?” he asked.

I turned to face him and stepped up with the heel of my good foot to sit sideways on the edge of the long leather seat. I took a moment to bend and straighten my knee a few times. “It actually feels pretty good,” I said.

“RICE right away usually does it,” Billy said.

“Huh?” I said.

“
R
est,
i
ce,
c
ompression, and
e
levation.”

“Wow,” I said. “You really know your stuff.”

He shrugged. “I've logged a lot of long, hard hours in the bike biz.”

I opened my eyes wide. “Right,” I said. “Late morning bike rides, leisurely lunches in courtyard cafés…Sounds like the life to me.”

He grinned. “Especially if you factor out getting up at four-thirty so I could finish what I had to do first. But, yeah, it's a nice life, no question about that.”

He looked at his watch, then held out his wrist to me. “How're you doing for time?”

“Fine,” I said. “I'll beat the bus with minutes to spare.” I put my hand on his forearm. “Thanks for the great lunch. And company.”

We looked at each other. He leaned down to kiss me on the cheek.

I turned my head.

“Shit,” I said when we finished kissing. I wasn't sure if I meant
shit
that I couldn't keep kissing Billy all day or
shit
that I could feel my life getting complicated.

“Don't blame me,” he said. He traced one finger along my cheek, then reached down and lifted my legs into the truck. It was a chivalrous gesture somehow, maybe a suggestion of being carried over some distant threshold.

I hoped he was busy enough closing my door that he didn't hear me sigh.

Billy was quiet as we drove along the pretty, tree-lined streets. I was quiet, too, because I was concentrating on trying not to think. I mean, what was the point? What ever happened would happen, and in the meantime, the best thing to do was to stay in the moment. Or maybe to drift back just a little, to the moment before the moment, so I could relive that kiss. If only I could freeze time right there, knowing I could go back and push Play again whenever I was ready.

As we turned onto my street, I saw Seth's car in my driveway. My heart started beating like crazy. I was pretty sure I actually gulped.

My mind raced, trying to catch up with my heart. I wondered if I could get away with asking Billy to stop and drop me off right here. Maybe I could say I needed to walk off my lunch, or give my knee a post-RICE workout.

It was a really short street. “Um,” I said.

Billy pulled into my driveway. Seth was leaning over my new railings. He looked up. He was holding a paintbrush and a can of paint.

Billy put the truck into park.

“Wow,” I said. “What a coincidence. My ex—”

Billy opened the truck door.

“It's okay,” I said quickly. “I can let myself out.”

He pushed the door open and climbed out. Seth placed the brush in the paint can and put it down on the ground. He wiped his hands on his jeans. I closed my eyes.

When I opened them, Billy and Seth were shaking hands. Then they went in for a guy hug, still holding the handshake but coming together for a quick mutual pat on the back. The shake made sense, but the guy hug seemed awfully civilized, given the circumstances.

But wait.

What
were
the circumstances? For all Billy knew, Seth was just the painter. I mean, how many guys go right up and hug the painter?

There didn't seem to be a choice, so I opened my door and climbed out. My knee didn't really hurt anymore, but I had to fight the urge to limp anyway, like a wild animal who knows that if it acts injured, it might stand a better chance of surviving an attack.

Seth turned to me with a big smile on his face. Billy's face was a little bit harder to read.

“What a small world,” Seth said.

“How small?” I said.

“You know that go-between I was telling you about?” Billy said.

I looked at Seth. I looked at Billy.

“No,” I said.

“Yeah,” Seth said. “Isn't it great? I've started consulting for a few companies, including one of the fair trade companies I dealt with from West Africa, but wow, the chance to go to Japan again is pretty amazing. How do you two know each other anyway?”

It was immature. It was beneath me. I did it anyway.

“I hate you both,” I said. And then I limped my way into the house.

 

HERE'S THE THING ABOUT LIFE:
men have all the breaks. I spend the last seven years trying to be a good mom, and where does it get me? Home. Home while my ex-husband, who was probably technically not even an ex, and my possible boyfriend-to-be go away together. Home with my daughter, who even though I loved her more than life itself, would spend the whole time they were off gallivanting around Japan wishing her father was here and I wasn't.

What gave Seth the right to waltz right in, spend a little time with Anastasia and me, then abandon us again to jet off to Japan? It was an easy answer: he was a penis-carrying member of the official worldwide male club, and the perks meant he got all the travel I longed for.

I tried to picture Seth and Billy spending, what, ten days together? Bonding while sharing stories about me over a few drinks. I shivered at the thought. After comparing notes, they'd turn into best friends, and here I'd sit, odd woman out.

I must have dozed off after I finished crying, because a knock on the door jolted me awake.

“Mom?” Anastasia's voice said from the other side of the door.

“Hi, honey,” I said in a fake cheery voice.

“Dad wants to know if you want to come out and have some dinner.”

“No thanks,” I said, as if this were a perfectly ordinary situation. “I had a late lunch.”

There was silence on the other side of the door.

“I'm just going to read for a while, honey, and give you some time to hang out with your dad, okay?”

The doorknob turned. I wiggled into a sitting position and fluffed up my hair fast. I hoped my eyes weren't so puffy they'd scare Anastasia.

She poked her head in and reached up to adjust her pink headband. “You don't have a book,” she said. “Or a magazine.”

“I was just trying to decide what to read. How was school?”

“Okay. Matthew gave Mitchell a black eye so we only got a short recess.”

“Men,” I said.

Anastasia reached for her headband again. “What?”

“Nothing.” I pulled a pillow out from behind me and hugged it. “Sorry I didn't meet your bus today, honey.”

“That's okay. Dad was there.” Anastasia started disappearing back into the hallway.

“What's for dinner?” I asked, just to keep her there a little longer.

Her head came back in and her hazel eyes met mine.

“Sushi. Dad's going to Japan, so we're practicing. He's going to bring me video games and some Japanese T-shirts. And next time he says I can go with him.”

I patted the bed beside me. “Sit for a minute.”

“I can't,” Anastasia said. “I have to go check on my new hamster.”

“What?” I said, but my daughter was already gone.

I followed her out to the kitchen. My entire body was getting stiffer by the minute, but I was too furious to care.

Seth was rolling rice, shredded carrots, and cucumber slices into rectangles of seaweed at my kitchen counter. “Hey,” he said, without quite looking up.

“You bought her a hamster without discussing it with me first?” I said.

“He's allowed to do that,” Anastasia said.

Seth kept rolling.

“Her name is Cammy,” Anastasia said. “I'll take care of her. You won't have to do anything.”

“She wanted a cat,” Seth finally said. “This was a compromise.”

I willed my stiff knees to bend and aimed my sore butt at one of the kitchen chairs. “Sit,” I said once I'd landed.

They sat.

I crossed my arms over my chest.

“Okay, here's the thing. From now on, any decision that impacts all three of us is first discussed by the two grown-ups in the family.”

I looked at Seth. “That would be us.”

“But—” Anastasia said.

“Wait,” I said. “Any decision—cell phones, hamsters, dates, nose rings, tattoos…”

“I can get a tattoo?” Anastasia asked. “When?”

Seth started to open his mouth, but I was faster. “And then, if and only if the grown-ups agree, you'll be brought into the negotiations.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Shall we give it a test run?”

Seth and Anastasia looked like two peas in a pod when they shrugged.

I looked at Seth. “Tattoo. How would you feel about our daughter getting a tattoo?”

“Not a chance in France,” Seth said.

“I agree,” I said. “End of discussion.”

“That's not fair,” Anastasia said.

“Life's not fair,” I said. “Try us again in a couple of years.”

I looked at Seth. “I'd like you to move in for about a week to stay with our daughter so I can go somewhere.”

“Okay,” Seth said.

I turned to Anastasia. “How would you feel about that?”

“Good,” Anastasia said.

“Great,” I said. I pushed myself back up to a standing position. “I'll get back to you both with some dates.”

As soon as I hobbled back to my bedroom, I picked up my cell phone and called my boss, Joni. “It's Jill,” I said. “I'm just wondering. Is it too late to get in on that Costa Rica surfing trip?”

MAYBE I HADN'T DONE A LOT OF SMART THINGS IN MY
life, but at least I'd renewed my passport last year. It had actually been a birthday present I'd given to myself.

Joni always came through with a gift on my birthday—a book of movie passes or a gift certificate to a restaurant. But for years my only other birthday present had been what ever Anastasia made for me, usually a painting that dried while we baked my birthday cake.

As much as I certainly didn't have money to burn, things were starting to get incrementally easier. I could almost believe that over the course of the next ten years, the life of the passport, I might actually get ahead enough to be able to afford to go somewhere. And somehow I thought if I renewed the passport, maybe it would symbolically pave the way for a trip.

I'd planned on getting Anastasia her first passport at the same time, even if it meant scrimping on groceries for a few weeks. I simply couldn't imagine going anywhere without her. I went online to see if we needed to bring anything besides her birth certificate for documentation. Apparently there was just one small thing: her father. In order to receive a U.S. passport, a child under the age of sixteen had to appear with both parents and sign a form in front of an Acceptance Agent. Those two capital
A
s read like a warning: an Acceptance Agent would be taller and more threatening than a mere acceptance agent,
the implication being
don't even think about trying any funny stuff
.

I couldn't be the only single mother in the United States who wasn't able to produce her husband. I scrolled down. Sure enough, I could do this alone. I just had to get Seth to give us a signed and notarized Statement of Consent to take with us. Piece of cake—all I had to do was find him.

I kept reading until I came to Form DS-3053, STATEMENT OF SPECIAL CIRCUMSTANCES,
to be completed by applying parent or guardian when the written consent of the nonapplying parent or guardian cannot be obtained.

Use back of form if additional space is needed
, it said.

Ha. Not only was the back of the form not nearly spacious enough, even when combined with the front of the form, but all I could see was the big can of worms it would open.
Have you attempted to contact the nonapplying parent or guardian through his parents or other relatives?
the Acceptance Agent would probably ask.
Have you tried to locate him through his employer?

Form DS-3053 made me consider skipping the birthday travel symbolism and taking a nap instead. But I forced myself to fork over the money to renew at least my passport. Maybe I'd just keep renewing it until Anastasia was old enough to sign for her own passport, and
then
we'd go somewhere together.

A year later, here I sat, on my front steps, amazed and a little bit overwhelmed that I not only had a current passport when I needed one, but it looked like I was actually going to use it before the week was out.

I waved to Anastasia as she lined up with the other kids to get on the bus. She waved back, then pushed some buttons on her Purple People Reacher Phone.

My cell phone rang. I ignored it.

Anastasia gave her head a shake and pointed at her phone.

I pushed a button on my cell. “Sorry,” I said. “I didn't think it was you.”

“Mom, don't forget to make sure Cammy has plenty of water while I'm at school. I don't know how fast she drinks yet. And make sure you call her Cammy and not anything else, so she doesn't get confused while she's still learning her name. And if you have any questions, just look them up in the hamster book Dad bought me. I have to go, bye.”

Anastasia disappeared onto the school bus.

Cynthia sauntered over and plopped down next to me on the steps.

“Hey,” I said. “Would you mind being my backup? My ex is going to watch Anastasia while I take a trip to Costa Rica, and I just want to make sure he has an emergency number.”

Cynthia leaned back in her tennis outfit and crossed one perfectly formed thigh over the other. My own thighs had been screaming with pain since I woke up this morning. I wondered if they'd ever be crossable again.

“Cheez Whiz,” Cynthia said. “Why can't I be single?”

I pulled the T-shirt I'd slept in down over the knees of my baggy gray sweatpants. “Trust me,” I said. “It's not as glamorous as it looks.”

“You know, I've always wanted to go to Costa Rica,” Cynthia said. “Where is it again, girlfriend?”

 

THE WEEK FLEW BY
in a blur of preparations. I picked up extra phone shifts, trading for coverage while I was away, which essentially meant I was tethered to my headphone pretty much round-the-clock. I called everybody in Lunch Around the
World, canceling Monday's class and tacking on an extra class at the end of the session.

They were ridiculously happy for me. “It's about time you had a little fun, a young girl your age,” T-shirt Tom said. “You only go around once, you know, honey.”

“Don't you worry about us,” Ethel said. “We'll still be here when you get back. At least the ones that don't keel over in the meantime. Have you worked things out with the boyfriend yet? Not that I make a point of sticking my nose in where it's not my business, but he seemed like a real sweetheart.”

I communicated most of the details of my trip to Seth via Anastasia and her Purple People Reacher Phone. I tried not to think about the fact that it was only a matter of time before we became the subject of one of her spelling sentences.
Dysfunctional
, she'd write. My parents have this
dysfunctional
way of talking to each other through me.
Dysfunctional
.

The rest of the information I wrote down on an ongoing note on a bright yellow legal pad. I left it on the kitchen counter and kept adding things as I thought of them.

• —A. hasn't had an ear infection since she was 4½, but if she does, remind the pediatrician that Amoxicillin never works, and to go right to the Augmentin, unless they've come up with a better antibiotic since her last ear infection. Pediatrician's number is on the emergency list, but here it is again, in case the emergency list falls off the refrigerator.
  
• —Make sure A. leaves that cell phone in the kitchen at night, and keeps it turned off whenever possible, since school's still out on the cumulative dangers of electromagnetic radiation.
  
• —Please remember to turn off lights when not in use.
  
• —Sometimes the toilet handle needs to be jiggled to stop the water from running. If you find yourself with extra time on your hands, maybe you could figure out why.
  
• —The computer is off-limits until all homework is done. And please supervise A. when she is on it so she doesn't inadvertently come into contact with the many unsavory characters in cyberspace who prey on innocent young girls.
  
• —Do not let kids next door snack here. Food is far better at their house. Key is under the mat. Good luck finding fridge.
  
• —A. needs her sleep, so do not allow yourself to be manipulated into a later bedtime.
  

The next time I picked up the yellow legal pad, I saw that Anastasia had crossed out this last entry. Over it she'd written in purple pen:
A. does not need much sleep. Let her stay up as late as she wants.

Billy called a couple times. Once I was home. I stood in my kitchen and watched his name light up my caller ID, but I didn't pick up. He left messages asking me to call him back, saying he'd like to talk. I thought about it, but what was there to say? We were at such different places in our lives, and with my luck, dating him would only mean I'd be watching his kids, too, while he and Seth ran off to Japan together. It was just the way of the world.

I avoided talking directly with Seth. I mean, what was the point? Every time I thought of him, my chest tightened with
resentment. He probably thought he was father of the century for spending a few paltry nights taking care of his daughter, even though he'd shirked that responsibility for most of her life.

And as soon as I got back, he'd head off to Japan for the first of what were sure to be many trips ahead. I'd never really be able to count on him, and the sooner I faced that cold, hard truth, the better off I would be.

I also did my best to avoid Anastasia's new hamster. I told myself it was because I needed to step back so Anastasia would step up and assume full caretaking responsibility. If I changed the cedar shavings or the water bottle, or filled the little food dish, even a single time, it would become my job as soon as the novelty of owning a hamster wore off.

But the truth was, even though it called out to me every time I walked by, I just couldn't let myself get anywhere near that little wire cage with its brightly colored maze of tubes crisscrossing inside like a jungle gym. I had to think of it as an
it
and not a
she
, as
the hamster
and not
Cammy
.

When we were curled up on the couch watching TV after dinner and homework, Anastasia would bring the cage out to sit on our coffee table trunk. She'd reach in and take the hamster out for a cuddle. “Here, Mom,” she'd say. “Feel how soft Cammy's fur is.”

I'd give it a quick pat with one forefinger, careful not to feel a thing. The last thing I needed was something else that needed me to take care of it.

If I let this little fur ball in, even for a second, it would be all over. Before I knew it I'd be worrying about whether it was getting enough human attention, if it needed another hamster for rodent companionship. Then I'd start waking up in the middle of the night wondering whether I should call the vet to double-check the best ratio of dry food to fresh vegetables, and perhaps
discuss the possibility of adding vitamins to its little hamster diet while I had them on the phone. Oh, and should we consider upgrading to a better brand of cedar shavings to risk damaging its delicate little hamster lungs?

The downward spiral would continue. I'd spend hours reworking the plastic tubes into ever more challenging mazes to stimulate its tiny hamster brain. I'd sit at my sewing machine for hours making matching dresses for Cammy and Anastasia. I'd surf the Internet, thinking surely someone must make a pink plastic headband for hamsters.

All over the world, approximately every five seconds, another perfectly intelligent woman gets sucked in like this, the victim of maternal instincts or female hormones, or maybe just a heart that keeps overruling her head.

Each time I passed the hamster cage, that old commercial would play in my mind.
Calgon, take us away,
I wished for us all.