Jennifer Archer - Off Her Rocker

Outside, Tizzy’s baby runs down the tree trunk, all the way to the ground. He darts across the yard alone. A first since I’ve been keeping tabs on the tree. The baby squirrel disappears, and Tizzy scampers down from the nest seconds later, pausing midway, her head jerking left and right, up and down. She chatters and chatters, calling him back.

“Have you ever paid attention to what goes on in your yard?” I ask Polly, my gaze on the frenzied squirrel. “Whole lives are being lived out there. Dramas. Celebrations. Births. Deaths.”

Polly kneels beside me and touches my arm. “You need to get out of this house.”

“Why?”

Still no baby squirrel. Tizzy descends to the base of the tree trunk.

“Did you make that list, like I told you to? The one of all the things you’ve always wanted to do but didn’t have time for?”

“Yes.” I flick a wrist toward my dresser. “I think it’s still over there.”

Polly stands and crosses the room. A second later she says, “This paper is blank, Dana.”

“I couldn’t think of anything.”

“I don’t believe that. Surely you have things you want to do. Besides having a family, I had other big dreams when I was young. Then I got busy and pushed them aside. It must be the same for you.”

I shrug.

“What were your dreams before you had your kids?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Dana—”

“It doesn’t matter.” For the first time since she entered the bedroom, I cease rocking and face her. “Whatever they were, they’re gone now, and even if they weren’t, I wouldn’t know how to begin to accomplish them. All I’m good at is being a mother. That’s it. Period.”

“Being a mother is no small thing.”

“But it’s not marketable, and I don’t have any other skills. Not anymore.”

“Why do you think that?”

“I tried to find a job.”

She nods. “And?”

“Do you know what businesses are willing to hire a middle-aged woman with a twenty-four-year-old philosophy degree and no work experience? None. Not even the kind that require their employees to ask, ‘Would you like fries with that?’ They think I’m overqualified, and I’ll be bored. As if I’m not already.”

“You didn’t find anything?”

“Nothing. Nada. Zilch.”

“You could go to work for Carl.”

“No way. I’ve been working for Carl for more than two decades here at the house. Besides, he gives me money. I don’t have to earn it.”

She sends me a look of sympathy. “I’m sorry. Maybe it’s just bad timing. Closer to Christmas, I bet you could find work in a boutique or something like that.”

“It’s mid-October. What do I do until then?”

Polly crosses her arms. “I don’t know. But I’m not going to stand here and watch you waste away feeling sorry for yourself.”

“Neither am I.” Mother strides into the room, a Coach purse I’ve never seen before slung over her shoulder, a clove cigarette poised between her fingertips. She puts her purse on my unmade bed, stoops and grabs my robe from the floor and tosses it at me. “Get up.”

“I—” The phone rings. I pull it from beneath the blanket across my lap, ignoring Polly’s narrowed eyes when I check the caller ID.

“So you didn’t know I’d called, huh?” she says.

It’s Troy. For the first time in a long time, I feel like smiling. He hasn’t answered his phone in four days. “Hi, sweetie.”

“Hey, Mom.”

He sounds funny. “How are you?”

“Terrible. I’ve had a cold since last week.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“What could you do? You’re hundreds of miles away.”

Don’t remind me.

“I thought I could sleep it off so I didn’t go to class.”

“Good. You need your rest. Don’t push it, Troy.”

“Tell my economics teacher that. When I called him, he said I still have to take the test even though I missed the lecture today.”

“Did you explain that you’re sick?”

“He didn’t care. He wouldn’t listen to me.”

“Maybe he’d listen to me. You want me to call him?”

A pause, then he says, “I don’t know. I doubt it would make any difference. He’s a major butt-hole.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to try.”

“Okay, call him. Say I have a fever.”

My pulse jumps. “Do you?”

“Probably. I feel like crap. Tell him there’s no way I’m gonna be up to taking that test. I’m too sick to study.”

“What’s his name and number?” Before he can answer, I say, “Just a minute.” I snap my fingers at Mother and motion for the blank piece of paper on the dresser, mouthing the word pen.

Rolling her eyes at Polly, Mother brings them to me, then takes a deep drag off her cigarette. Tilting back her head, she blows out a stream of sweet-smelling smoke.

“Okay,” I say to Troy. He coughs before rattling off the information. I write it down. “You sound awful. Are you taking any medicine?”

“I don’t know what to take.”

“I packed a decongestant and cough syrup in your first-aid kit. It’s all labeled. Maybe you should go to the student clinic and make sure it’s nothing serious.”

“I’m too tired. I’m achy, too.” And whiny. Just like when he was little and not feeling well. My heart squeezes with love for him. “I just need to sleep,” he says.

“Are you eating?”

“A little. The food here sucks.”

“No wonder you’re sick. Take those vitamins I bought for you. And don’t try to go to classes tomorrow, sweetie.”

“I won’t.” He yawns. “I wish I knew someone in my English class who’d share notes with me.”

“You haven’t made any friends?”

“Not in that class.”

“Well, ask someone. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.” I sigh and bite my lower lip. “If I was there I’d go and do it for you, sweetie.” I watch Tizzy darting around the yard worried about her baby, and sympathize. “I wish I was there to take care of you while you’re sick, too. Make some hot tea in the microwave. I put a box of chamomile in your grocery supplies. And don’t worry about economics. I’ll call your teacher right now.”

“Oh, good gawd,” Mother drawls as she returns from flushing her cigarette down the toilet in the adjoining bathroom. “How old is the boy?”

“Is that Grandmother?” Troy asks.

“Yes. You want to talk to her?”

“Sure.”

“Here she is. Goodbye, Troy. Take care of yourself. Love you.” I hold out the phone to Mother. “Don’t talk long. I need to call his teacher.”

“Oh, please.” She takes the phone, presses it to her ear and says, “Hi, darling.”

I shift my attention to Polly. “It’s hard being away from him at times like this. It’s always hard, but him being sick makes it worse. I feel so helpless.”

“I’m sure it won’t be easy for me, either, when my kids go away. But they have to grow up sometime.”

I push out of the rocker and the blanket falls from my shoulders to the floor. “How can we just expect them to take care of everything on their own overnight? They’re used to having us in charge one day, and the next they’re supposed to handle their lives like an adult?”

Mother says goodbye to Troy, then hands me the phone. I glance at the professor’s name on the paper in my hand and begin punching in his number.

“Damn it, Dana, you’re making a mistake.” She pulls another cigarette from her purse. “Do you want Troy to become a man, or a wimp?”

I turn my back to her and put the phone to my ear.

“After he graduates and starts working at the agency, are you going to gripe out Carl if he doesn’t give Troy a raise every year?” The phone starts ringing. When I continue to ignore Mother, she says to Polly, “Come on. Let’s see if there’s coffee in the kitchen.” They leave the room.