Spy Mom (64 page)

“The doctor said six weeks, Lucy,” he said, lying next to me in bed, stroking my arm. “We seem to have made it that far.”

I, well into my second tube of nipple cream, stared at him blankly.

“You want to have sex with this?” I asked, pointing to my body, which didn't actually resemble my body but must have been because it was attached to my head.

“Yes,” he said. “Very much.”

I thought about his request for a few minutes. He waited patiently, hopefully, for my answer.

“Well, okay, I guess. But you can't actually touch me. Is that possible?”

“Sure,” he said, reaching to pull off my shirt.

“No!” I howled. “The shirt stays on. I said you weren't allowed to actually touch me.”

He sighed. This was going to be a challenge, but Will never backed down from a challenge.

“Fine. No touching.”

I have to hand it to him, he managed to pull it off by leaving most of my clothes on and indulging in the liberal use of unflavored lubricating gel.

“That was different,” he said afterward.

I'll say. Before we could dissect the new nature of our relationship, Theo, sleeping in a bassinet not twelve inches from my head, began to bawl.

Eventually, sex tipped the scales back toward pleasure rather than obligation and I think we were both relieved. It would have been terrible to face a lifetime with someone who turned you on about as much as a pair of argyle socks.

But there were a number of things that stayed permanently skewed. The minute Theo was out of his crib and into his big boy bed, he discovered the joys of showing up in our bed at 6
A.M
. He would sneak in the door, glide around the foot of the bed on padded feet, crawl up and over Will, and snuggle down between us. He would always bring his blanket and a stuffed animal that had to share my pillow. And most of the time it was sweet. But sometimes it wasn't.

“Wait! Stop!” I'd whisper, barely able to keep my voice down.

“What? Are you okay? Am I hurting you?”

“No. Get off me. Quick!”

“What's going on? You're acting really weird.”

“Kid in the doorway.”

“Oh, shit. I mean, Hi, Theo.”

Yes, the old Theo interruptus. Theo would look at us strangely and shake his head as if he couldn't understand why he'd gotten stuck with such odd parents. He was a good kid, after all, he ate most of his vegetables. So why the karmic payback of the wacky mom and dad rolling around on their bed like fish out of water? Once I got over the sheer horror of being caught in the act, I kind of felt sorry for him.

After a while, I realized Theo filled my thoughts. He might be in the background, like elevator music, but he was still there. Even in the honest throes of passion, there was a part of me that stayed with my child. I would do anything for him, even when he was screaming like a banshee on the checkout line of the supermarket, even when he overturned his dinner onto the floor or showed up in our bedroom when I would rather he didn't. I no longer belonged to Will. I no longer belonged to myself.

For now, I belonged to Theo.

The first rays of sun creep into our bedroom, illuminating the dust hanging in the air in a way that's almost beautiful. If yesterday was a full frontal disaster, today promises more of the same. First, we have an interview for Theo at San Francisco Country Day. I had planned on a rather casual approach but now Will is accompanying us, and I may have to reform my ways.

San Francisco Country Day is the sort of private school Will attended as a child where everyone wears navy trousers, maroon sweater vests, and white button-down shirts. Each student is required to have a blazer with the school emblem sewn neatly over the left breast pocket. Right there, I'm already in big trouble. I can sew a button but only at gunpoint. The classes at Country Day are small, the teachers have a collective 400,000 years of classroom experience, and when you talk about squash, everyone knows you mean the game and not the vegetable.

I didn't go to private school. The very thought of it terrifies me. However, while the idea of my child growing up in such a rarified atmosphere with actual princes and the offspring of extremely rich media tycoons is not ideal, San Francisco Country Day employs a staff of seven private security guards. Normally, the presence of private security guards would do little to ease my fears. They tend to stand around reading magazines, talking on the phone, or texting. Plus, most of them are so out of shape that chasing down a criminal would inevitably lead to cardiac arrest.

However, I checked out San Francisco Country Day's security company and it seems they're a subsidiary of a much larger private security company that works with the United States government, specifically in war zones. Shockingly, they're wholly owned by the family of a student in the third grade.

Public schools don't have money for crayons, let alone gun-toting paramilitary cowboys who are surely covered in tattoos under their official-looking jackets and ties. For most people, that's just fine. But I'm not most people. The criteria I use to judge a school's appropriateness isn't something I share with my mom friends. There's no need for them to think I'm that weird.

So it seems I'm willing to put up with diversity being defined as a child with brown hair and dressing my kid up like an accountant in exchange for a campus patrolled by a bunch of ex-marines. I mean, I'm pretty good but I can't be everywhere at once, can I?

For the privilege of sending my five-year-old into such an environment, I will pay $27,000 a year in tuition. No, you did not misread the number. And that's for kindergarten. The price increases as the child advances through the grades. After all, a sixth-grader is bound to eat more than a first-grader. Whether he can eat $10,000 more is up for debate.

When I first opened the brochure to a smiling bunch of kids sitting attentively in a classroom, absorbing knowledge like wee sponges, I felt the difference between Theo and me as a blow to the gut. Theo will move in these circles with these people as his friends. But he won't be pretending. It'll really be him, not some invented version of himself meant to confuse and distract the other side. Staring at the brochure, I wondered if there was a real version of me lurking around somewhere and what she might be like.

“Can we really justify spending that amount of money for kindergarten?” I'd asked Will. “They read storybooks and decorate pumpkins and things.”

“They have a strong reputation for math and science,” my husband said. How did he know this? Was he doing his homework on the side, stepping into my territory? “They also recently installed solar cells on the roofs of all their buildings. They're sending the right message, doing the right thing, and I want to support that.” Ah, I knew it had to be more than great test scores in algebra.

I let Will continue to sleep and slide into the shower. The last time Will was out of town, I took a pair of pliers and removed the water-saving device from the showerhead. I stand under Niagara Falls and enjoy how it pounds my head. It won't last, so I relish the temporary luxury of all that water.

Before I can rinse the conditioner out of my hair, I hear a wail coming down the hallway. I give it a minute to see if Will is going to wake up and attend to his howling son. From the shower, I can see he has pulled the comforter up over his head, so I guess the answer is no.

“Mom, I have to go to the bathroom!” I stand in Theo's door, a towel wrapped around me, my hair dripping all over the wood floor.

“That's why you got me out of the shower?” I ask.

“Can you carry me? The floor is really cold.”

“Theo,” I say, now freezing, “you're five years old. Five-year-olds can walk themselves to the bathroom. Maybe put on some socks?”

“Please, Mommy?” I have stared down nervous terrorists with their fingers on the trigger but I'm somehow powerless against Theo's quivering lower lip.

“Come on,” I say. He stands up on his bed and I pick him up. He takes a deep inhale of my wet hair.

“You smell like French fries,” he says. That's unfortunate for many reasons.

Fifteen minutes later, we're down in the kitchen, where I spend the bulk of my life. I plop Theo on the counter and put him to work scooping coffee into the French press. Six or seven scoops in, I reconsider my decision.

“What do you think about taking a walk in the Presidio today after we visit that school?” I propose. “Just you and me? It will be fun. Maybe we'll play on the beach?”

And Mommy can do a little reconnaissance. And hope no one notices.

“What are we going to do besides walking? I want to do more things.”

“We can play on the beach,” I say again. There are clocks everywhere, on the stove, on my cell phone, on the wall. They are all telling me the same thing. Gray is running out of time.

“Can Henry come?” he asks.

“I don't think so. Not this time.”

“Please, Mom? I never get to do anything with Henry.” I don't point out that just yesterday we spent the entire excruciating length of a ballgame with Henry. However, what happened yesterday is utterly irrelevant when you're five. Only right now counts. You get no points for before.

Scouting for a secret safe house isn't exactly an appropriate outing for Theo, let alone his little friend. I should do what any sane mom who used to be a spy would do and call a babysitter, leaving Theo at home, safe and cozy and out of harm's way, while I go off and try to infiltrate a bunker presumably guarded by armed government agents, and attempt to steal back my terrorist. But for the same reason I sit outside Theo's school, I don't do babysitters. They make me anxious, chatting away on their cell phones, backs to the monkey bars and swing sets. It would be so easy to snatch a kid without the sitter even noticing. It might take minutes for her to realize her charge is gone. I start to sweat just thinking about it.

Early on, I decided I didn't want to force Theo to have all his playdates at our house because I suffered from an overdeveloped sense of paranoia. I wanted to say yes to little Matthew or Luke or Joe and let my son go and play with someone else's toys, which is what it's really all about anyway.

I also decided there was no need to confess that as Theo and Matthew or Luke or Joe drive home from school, I'm never far behind.

I park somewhere close by where I've a decent view of the house and I watch. Fortunately, I've had years of practice lurking around undetected so I have yet to be caught in the act, which is good because I haven't worked out an appropriate cover story to explain myself if I did. You think I'd take care of that, come up with something during all those hours sitting and staring at closed doors.

Theo sits on the counter, pouting, his face scrunched up in displeasure.

“I really miss Henry,” he says.

And I really need to get Yoder back. It might not be possible to satisfy everyone's needs today. Sometimes mothers have to make hard choices.

“I know, sweet pea. I'll see what I can do.” But it doesn't matter because Theo's no longer listening to me. Daddy has entered the kitchen. Will looks tired and incredibly gorgeous in faded jeans and a white T-shirt. I almost give in to the urge to set Theo up in front of the TV and drag Will back to the bedroom for a few minutes of X-rated behavior.

“Good morning,” he says with a yawn. He takes a sip of coffee and spits it in the sink. “What the hell?”

“I made the coffee,” Theo pipes up. “Do you like it?”

“Yes,” Will says, recovering. “But I might add a little milk.”

“Treat it like espresso and you'll be okay,” I suggest. Will wraps his arms around me. Theo squeezes in between us.

“You smell good,” Will says.

“Please don't say like French fries.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.”

“Are we ready for this interview?” he asks.

I was unaware I was meant to prepare.

“Theo,” he says. “Are you ready to dazzle these people?”

“Yes,” Theo says, although I'm pretty sure he didn't even hear the question. He's thinking about something else. He's thinking about yesterday. “So the guys who broke the windows last night are now on the bad-guy ship with Darth Vader and Darth Maul. The good guys are on the good-guy ship. In the playroom. Come on, I'll show you.”

Will's eyes drift toward the back door and the tape and cardboard. I freeze. I also failed to prepare for this scenario. However, it's clear I owe a karmic debt to Darth Vader as Will doesn't even flinch at Theo's story.

“Accident,” I whisper in Will's ear. “I slammed it pretty hard and it broke. The panes were cracked on the edges anyway. I'm not surprised.”

“And then Mommy lied on top of me and crushed the Connect Four box!” Theo says, tugging on Will's arm. “It was totally cool. Come on!”

I give Will a weak smile. At least Theo didn't mention the guns.

“Yesterday was a little crazy,” I say.

But I can tell Will has already mentally moved on to other things, like the thirteen thousand unanswered e-mails in his inbox and an afternoon meeting with a company that wants to mass-produce home composters. “A composter in every home!” As a tag line, I think it needs work.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Will says, untangling from us. “My parents are coming today.”

My shoulders immediately tense up at the thought.

“Are they staying the night?” I ask.

“Yup,” Will says.

And there it is. The final bit of evidence that I am indeed cursed.

Will stands at the mirror, knotting his tie. Theo, dressed in a dark blue sweater and khaki pants, watches intently. I stare into my bamboo closet with a feeling that can only be described as despair.

“I think you'd better take Theo on this interview without me,” I say.