Jennifer Archer - Off Her Rocker

“Three hours? That’s not long enough to decide on anything. How about six?”

“I said three.”

“Five, then.”

“Four,” I say.

“Okay.”

Proud of myself for not letting Taylor have her way, I send Myra a smug smile. She shakes her head, squirts Soft Scrub onto the stainless steel sink, and it occurs to me that I really didn’t stand my ground. Taylor managed to weasel an extra hour out of me. Once again, I’ve been manipulated by the master.

“What about the stuff we pick out?” Taylor asks.

Because I know my own weaknesses, I turn my back to Myra, disgusted with myself. Why do I always give in? “Get prices and give me a total. Then I’ll decide.”

“Okay.” Taylor sniffs but doesn’t argue, and I think to myself, She knows I’ll pay, whatever the price. She knows I’m a pushover when it comes to her and Troy. Everyone sees right through me. Even my housekeeper.

After hanging up, I consider calling my mother to ask if she wants to have lunch with me; that’s when I know just how desperate I am.

I need a walk. Fresh air to clear my mind, to give me perspective and revive my energy and enthusiasm. To help me figure out what I’m supposed to do for the rest of my life.

Fifteen minutes later, I stand on the curb across the street from the high school my children attended. Classes are in full swing. Vehicles pack the student parking lot. A black Chevy Tahoe pulls into the visitor’s section, followed by a white minivan. Marliss Crocker and Vicky Avery. I remember it’s Tuesday and check my watch. After ten. They’re late for the first PTA board meeting of the year. I know the schedule by heart. Last year and the year before, I chaired the fundraising committee. Since my kids started school, I have served in every position at least twice, including president.

Atop a pole at the school’s entrance, the American and Texas flags billow and pop in the breeze as Marliss and Vicky climb from their vehicles. The greetings they call out to one another, their laughter, drift to me. They meet and start toward the building, side by side.

I feel thirteen again, as if I’ve arrived at my best friend’s house and discovered she’s having a party, and I wasn’t invited. Marliss is president this year. Vicky took over my position. I nibble my thumbnail cuticle. Marliss couldn’t organize a kindergarten homeroom party, and everyone in town knows Vicky’s careless spending habits bankrupted her husband last year. When those two were elected, I almost choked. They’ll squander all the money I worked so hard to raise for the school; I just know it.

Before they enter the front doors, Marliss glances back toward the lot. I scurry behind a car parked at the curb where I’m standing. Too late. She sees me and waves, then turns and says something to Vicky. Pausing to squint my direction, Vicky waves, too. Despite the distance separating us, I see the shock and pity in their expressions as they exchange a glance, then disappear into the building with their heads together.

I kick a tire. Why would they feel sorry for me? Squaring my shoulders, I straighten my wrinkled, coffee-stained T-shirt. So what if I look like I just climbed out of bed? I deserve a leisurely morning now and then, don’t I? I raised my children. I served my time as a volunteer. I’m retired. No shame in that. They’re just jealous that they aren’t free to do whatever they want to do.

Pushing tangled hair from my face, I step off the curb and jog across the street. Maybe I’ll take up running. Buy some of those cute little shorts and spandex tops with built-in bras and sail by here every morning looking toned and lithe and smug while they’re dropping off their freshmen and nibbling a doughnut, sipping their four-dollar five-hundred-calorie lattes with hazelnut syrup and wishing they’d worn elastic-waist pants instead of jeans.

When I reach the corner, a sharp pain stabs into my side and I have to stop to catch my breath. In the past two decades, the extent of my exercise program has been chasing kids, a daily leisurely walk and an occasional Kathy Smith fat-burning video. And the latter only if I had a special occasion coming up, such as a wedding or a class reunion, and I wanted to squeeze into something slinky and impress somebody. The truth is, I’ve been guilty of frequent doughnut and latte breakfasts myself. It’s no wonder that, right now, my throat aches, my shins and calves hurt, and I feel as if I might puke.

Clutching my stomach, I cut across the parking lot, then lean against the building next to a bush, panting. A flash of color on the other side of the window catches my eye. I peek in.

Even though they sit with their backs to me, I recognize all but a couple of the ten or so women inside. My former fellow PTA moms. Why are they meeting in the cafeteria? We always met in the auditorium. Leave it to Marliss to make waves.

I scan the group. Polly, my best friend, sits front row and center tapping a pencil against her chin, her curly dark hair still damp from her shower. Alice Mays sits beside her, still trying to look sixteen. She wears a too-tight spaghetti-strapped tank she probably borrowed from her daughter, short-shorts, tall-wedged sandals and her trademark ankle bracelet that spells her name in tiny silver letters; I see it because she has one leg crossed over the other and she swings her calf back and forth. In the back row, Sherry Pembry is nodding off. Marliss stands in front of the group, facing me, animated as she talks.

The pain beneath my rib cage subsides until only an aching emptiness remains. How did I get here? Forty-six years old, outside my kids’ former high school spying on the women I used to lead. Replaced. Displaced. Dethroned. An outsider looking in at a kingdom I once ruled.

My calf cramps. Cursing quietly, I reach down to rub it and stumble. To steady myself, I press a hand to the window and, when I glance up, Marliss catches sight of me. Our eyes meet. My heart jumps. I step out of sight behind the bush. Leaning back against the building’s cool brick wall, I close my eyes and concentrate on trying not to cry from humiliation.

A minute later, I hear the bush rustle, and open my eyes again. Polly stands in front of me.

“What are you doing, Dana?”

“Would you believe training for a marathon?”

She frowns.

“How about that I’ve hired on to wash these windows?”

Her brows arch.

“I didn’t think so.” I sniff and nibble my lip. “What are y’all talking about in there?”

“Ways to raise money for new lockers.”

I stand straighter. “Volunteer to find sponsors and I’ll do it for you. You know I’m good at that. The best.”

“Dana…” A sympathetic, concerned expression replaces Polly’s frown. “I’ve already volunteered to head up the back-to-school bake sale.”

“I’ll help you.”

“Why would you want to do that? Don’t you know how lucky you are to be through with all this?” She motions toward the building. “When my time comes, I’m going to enjoy doing nothing for a while.”

“That’s what I thought, too. Doing nothing gets old really fast, believe me.”

“But at lunch the other day you said—”

“I lied. I didn’t want anyone to feel sorry for me. I’ve cried every single day Troy has been gone. I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m completely and utterly pathetic.” I burst into tears.

Polly hugs me. “Do something just for you, for a change. You’ve earned the right.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Start a business. Get a job. Really run a marathon.” She steps back. “Give yourself some time. It’s only natural you’d be having a tough few weeks. You devoted yourself to those kids. Every day will get better, you’ll see. You’ll figure out what to do.”