slate. New friends. Friends that would be ours, not just his or just mine .
The demographics of Farhaven are pretty homogeneous, one could say. People like us. But then, that’s the benefit (or drawback) of living in the suburbs. In fact, if you’re willing to adopt the suburban code, it’s very easy to be welcomed with open arms, to be readily accepted, exist without incident, blend in. Perhaps even go unnoticed. Just live like the suburbans and you’ll be fine. Go to PTO meetings and join the book club, host bunco, watch each other’s children, have a block party or two, join the country club (or try to), maintain a good lawn, and the hummingbirds are guaranteed to buzz around your front porch every morning.
I summon my typical composure. I decide to abandon Plan A, which was to take the girls immediately. Where I would have taken them, I don’t know exactly, which makes Plan A seem rash. So I quickly shift to Plan B, which is to wait out the meet as best I can. It’ll give me time to think. I clasp my hands, too, to borrow a sense of calm from these people. I stand in place for the count of five to center myself, and scan the benches to locate the girls.
I look over the sea of familiar faces. First, I spot Vicki, who puts her hand up halfway to wave, then crinkles her face, turns to Meg, and whispers something. Meg is sitting in the row behind Vicki. She waves, smiles warmly, and pats the spot on the bleacher next to her to offer me a seat. I feel a tug. I want to sit there and spill it. She’s my closest friend in this town. Or anywhere, at this point. If I could tell anyone, it would be her. She’s been loyal from the beginning. In fact, she was loyal when we were mere acquaintances.
We first met when the girls were in preschool together, and we discovered we were both new in town and decided to be each other’s emergency contacts. Much to my surprise, the school secretary needed to call her the second week of school.
Smarty was a new puppy then and was keeping me up at nights, like a newborn baby. I was exhausted during the day. One afternoon, I had fallen asleep on the couch and slept right through the girls’ pickup time. Even the nonstop calls from the school’s office staff didn’t stir me. To my utter embarrassment, Meg brought the girls home that day. The next day I found a small wrapped package at my front door. A lavender-scented sleep mask and an alarm clock with a note that read, Sweet Dreams, Your friend, Meg .
I’m not going to sit next to her. I don’t trust myself. Let’s see: a sister’s death, a forgotten pregnancy and possible hysterectomy, two daughters with questionable parentage. I don’t think so. No one is that unconditional. How would I react if she came to me with a story like that? I’m on my own. I’m not going to risk losing her. I can’t chance this leaking out to anyone, especially Andy.
In reply to her seat offer, I do a lame job of sign language. I point at myself while mouthing “I need,” then do a quacking motion with my hand (the international sign for “talk”). But I can’t think of anything that will mean “the girls” so I just say “the girls” out loud. A bunch of heads swivel in my direction. I sidestep across the cement floor behind the Sea Lions bench, where Tessa is sitting, stretching her arms over her head. I sit quietly behind her. I can’t tell if I’ve made it in time or whether they’ve already started, and I’m not sure the girls know I’m here.
I take a deep breath and collect myself. These are my daughters. And I am their mother. I’m not going to let some stupid, ancient newspaper article from some pokey town in upstate New York rattle my world.
I stick my head over Tessa’s left shoulder and whisper in her ear, “Hi, Tessa!” She’s so startled, she nearly takes a nosedive into the pool from the third row. “I’m here. See. I made it on time. Your mother is here,” I say plainly while slapping my lap for emphasis.
The demographics of Farhaven are pretty homogeneous, one could say. People like us. But then, that’s the benefit (or drawback) of living in the suburbs. In fact, if you’re willing to adopt the suburban code, it’s very easy to be welcomed with open arms, to be readily accepted, exist without incident, blend in. Perhaps even go unnoticed. Just live like the suburbans and you’ll be fine. Go to PTO meetings and join the book club, host bunco, watch each other’s children, have a block party or two, join the country club (or try to), maintain a good lawn, and the hummingbirds are guaranteed to buzz around your front porch every morning.
I summon my typical composure. I decide to abandon Plan A, which was to take the girls immediately. Where I would have taken them, I don’t know exactly, which makes Plan A seem rash. So I quickly shift to Plan B, which is to wait out the meet as best I can. It’ll give me time to think. I clasp my hands, too, to borrow a sense of calm from these people. I stand in place for the count of five to center myself, and scan the benches to locate the girls.
I look over the sea of familiar faces. First, I spot Vicki, who puts her hand up halfway to wave, then crinkles her face, turns to Meg, and whispers something. Meg is sitting in the row behind Vicki. She waves, smiles warmly, and pats the spot on the bleacher next to her to offer me a seat. I feel a tug. I want to sit there and spill it. She’s my closest friend in this town. Or anywhere, at this point. If I could tell anyone, it would be her. She’s been loyal from the beginning. In fact, she was loyal when we were mere acquaintances.
We first met when the girls were in preschool together, and we discovered we were both new in town and decided to be each other’s emergency contacts. Much to my surprise, the school secretary needed to call her the second week of school.
Smarty was a new puppy then and was keeping me up at nights, like a newborn baby. I was exhausted during the day. One afternoon, I had fallen asleep on the couch and slept right through the girls’ pickup time. Even the nonstop calls from the school’s office staff didn’t stir me. To my utter embarrassment, Meg brought the girls home that day. The next day I found a small wrapped package at my front door. A lavender-scented sleep mask and an alarm clock with a note that read, Sweet Dreams, Your friend, Meg .
I’m not going to sit next to her. I don’t trust myself. Let’s see: a sister’s death, a forgotten pregnancy and possible hysterectomy, two daughters with questionable parentage. I don’t think so. No one is that unconditional. How would I react if she came to me with a story like that? I’m on my own. I’m not going to risk losing her. I can’t chance this leaking out to anyone, especially Andy.
In reply to her seat offer, I do a lame job of sign language. I point at myself while mouthing “I need,” then do a quacking motion with my hand (the international sign for “talk”). But I can’t think of anything that will mean “the girls” so I just say “the girls” out loud. A bunch of heads swivel in my direction. I sidestep across the cement floor behind the Sea Lions bench, where Tessa is sitting, stretching her arms over her head. I sit quietly behind her. I can’t tell if I’ve made it in time or whether they’ve already started, and I’m not sure the girls know I’m here.
I take a deep breath and collect myself. These are my daughters. And I am their mother. I’m not going to let some stupid, ancient newspaper article from some pokey town in upstate New York rattle my world.
I stick my head over Tessa’s left shoulder and whisper in her ear, “Hi, Tessa!” She’s so startled, she nearly takes a nosedive into the pool from the third row. “I’m here. See. I made it on time. Your mother is here,” I say plainly while slapping my lap for emphasis.
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