Jennifer Archer - Off Her Rocker

My lower lip quivers. “I miss all this.”

“You’re only remembering the good stuff. You’re forgetting the aggravation.”

“Being a mother is the only thing I know how to do.”

“That’s not true.” She looks astounded that I would think such a thing. “You have a lot of talents.”

“Name one.”

Polly blinks rapidly. “You—” A short, sharp laugh, then she says, “You’re being silly.”

“You can’t think of anything.” I squint at her.

“Of course I can. But I need to get back to the meeting right now.” She takes my arm and tugs. “Go home. Make a list of all the things you’ve always wanted to do but didn’t have time for, then pick one.”

I wipe my eyes with the back of one hand.

“I’ll call you tonight,” Polly yells as she walks away.

For a full minute, I remain behind the bush, my arms at my sides, my gaze on my new Cole Haan sneakers. She couldn’t think of anything. My best friend could not come up with one single thing I’m good at.

On the walk home, I detour to the elementary school both Taylor and Troy attended. Small children are at recess. Settling on a nearby park bench, I listen to their squeals, their laughter. Watch them run and skip and climb on the playground equipment.

I miss my little girl and little boy. As much as I love my grown-up children, I mourn the loss of the kids they were. I miss their bright smiles when they would look up and see me enter a room. I miss the days when Troy talked my ear off and I didn’t have to bribe Taylor Jane with money to interest her in spending time with me. I miss being wanted, being needed.

Was life as simple and fulfilling back then as I remember it? Or, as Polly suggested, am I forgetting all the aggravation?

Leaving the park bench, I head for the sidewalk, still watching the children play.

“Is she a stranger?” I hear a tiny voice ask and turn in time to avoid running into a young woman who escorts a child toward the school building.

I duck out of their way. “Excuse me.”

Wariness clouds the woman’s eyes as she scans me from head to toe, and I realize how I must look: swollen eyes, slight limp, uncombed hair and wrinkled clothing.

“Is she, Mommy?” The little boy gawks at me over his shoulder as they pass.

“Yes, Cody,” the woman answers in a hushed tone, hurrying him along. “And we don’t talk to strangers, remember?”

Squaring my shoulders, I limp toward the street on my throbbing calves. In less than an hour, I have been reduced from a smug and admired marathon runner, at least in my own mind, to a person small children should avoid.

Mother’s powder-blue Cadillac pulls to the curb outside the front of my house when I turn the corner onto my street. She climbs out, looking like an ad for Talbots, crisp and tailored, every highlighted hair in place. “Where’ve you been?” she calls to me.

“Walking.”

She meets me center-yard, hugs me. “I say this with love, darling. You look like hell.”

“Thank you, Mother. That’s just the look I was striving for.”

Following me to the door, she says, “Seriously. I’m worried.”

“About me?” Surprised and oddly pleased, I pull my house key from my pocket. “Don’t be.”

“Carl needs you, Dana. He’s at the prime of his career. This is no time for a meltdown.”

So she’s worried about Carl. I should’ve known. “He’s fine, Mother.” I open the door and we walk inside. “And I’m not melting down. Even if I were, he’s so busy right now with work, I doubt he’d notice me dripping.”

She settles at the kitchen table, lights a clove cigarette, sizes me up. “You should fly to Colorado Springs and stay at the Broadmoor, pamper yourself at their spa for a week. A wife sometimes needs to take a bit of quality time for herself in order to give her best to her husband.”

“What 1955 guide to wifely duties did you read that in?”

“I mean it.” Mother props her elbow on the counter so that the smoldering cigarette tip points up at the ceiling. “You’re the one who needed a weekend at the Mansion. Not Taylor Jane and that long-haired, freeloading flake she married.”

“At least Mooney has a job. That’s more than I can say for Taylor.”

“Mooney.” Mother huffs, then mutters, “Dear God in heaven.” She takes a drag.

Myra emerges from the adjoining utility room carrying a basket of clean laundry.

Mother greets her with a nod and a half-assed smile.

Myra grunts and leaves the room.

I notice the blinking red light on my phone answering machine and push Play.

“You have two messages,” a robotic voice informs me, followed by a beep, then Carl saying, “It’s me. I have to take a prospective client to dinner tonight. Peter Celine. Celine Designer Shoes out of L.A. I know you’ve heard of them.”

Who hasn’t? I’ve ordered from their catalog many times. And Taylor probably keeps them in business.

“They’re bringing stores into this area soon. Cross your fingers I land the account. It’s big bucks. Don’t wait up.”

Another beep, then a voice says, “Mom, it’s me.” Taylor yawns. “I’m sorry I was such a bitch this morning. I started my period. If you really want to go with Elaine and me, you can. She’s meeting me at Wall Trends at 1:30. My car is on empty, so pick me up at 1:15.”

“Where did that child learn to use such language?” Mother asks.

“From listening to you, most likely.” Scooping yesterday’s mail off the counter, I shuffle through it. “Why don’t you go shopping with her and Elaine? I’m not in the mood anymore.”

“You’re asking me to drive through your son-in-law’s neighborhood?” Mother feigns a shudder. “No, thank you very much. I value my safety and my hubcaps.” Her mouth pulls into a thin line as she drags my half-empty coffee cup across the counter toward her. “Besides, I’m still not speaking to Taylor Jane.” She flicks ashes into the cup. “I may never get over her marrying that grease monkey. He has a tattoo, for heaven’s sake.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“On his shoulder blade. A dragon or some other such nonsense. I saw it when they were swimming over here one day when you weren’t home. What on earth has gotten into that daughter of yours?”

Lust, I think, but say, “I believe it’s called love.”

“Love.” Mother huffs again. “Ridiculous.”

I sit in the chair across from her and begin untying my shoes. “Daddy had a tattoo, or have you forgotten?”

Her rigid mask slips, and I glimpse the softness behind it, the hidden side of my mother I wish she allowed other people to see. “That’s different. Your father was in the navy.”

“Well, Mooney’s not a grease monkey, he’s a musician.” I stress the word like Taylor does, trying to convince myself as well as Mother. “Rock-and-rollers have tattoos these days. And he works at Home Depot sweeping sawdust now, not at the oil-change job.”

Scowling, Mother studies her fingernails. “Janet’s daughter Lynette asked me to have you call her.”

“Lynette Ames?” Janet is my mother’s lifelong best friend. Lynette is Janet’s daughter.

“It’s Yancy, now.”

“As in Mrs. Gregory Yancy the neurosurgeon? I didn’t know he and his first wife split.”

“Lynette made her move before the ink on the divorce papers dried. She’s a very sharp girl.”

The words gold digger come to mind as I remove one shoe and start untying the other. “I can’t remember the last time I saw her.”

Whenever it was, it hasn’t been long enough. Ever since we were little girls, Lynette has made it her mission in life to one-up me. First, she had to have the bigger toy, then the bigger bra and the better grade. Next came the more popular friends and studlier boyfriend. Later, the more prestigious college, followed by the fancier house and richer husband. She has had three of those.