So Much More, Page 3

  There’s a knock at the door. And it’s not your average knuckle rap. It’s a succession of raps that vary in length and intensity. The knock is odd, to the point that my hesitation to answer the door is exaggerated, I’m questioning if it was actually a gesture asking for entry or something else entirely, like Morse code. When I come to my senses and shake the early morning fog from my brain, I walk to the front door and answer.

  The stranger standing at my front door is wearing a white, strapless top with a big, red heart on it and frayed denim shorts. She has long dreadlocks in different hues of blues, greens and purples so vivid that rainbow doesn’t seem a sufficient description. My first reaction is one hundred percent male, instant initial appreciation. She’s eye catching. I’m not a perv, but no one would argue she has the face of an angel set atop a strikingly, well-proportioned body. Her hand is extended across the threshold in what I assume is greeting, like she’s offering to shake my hand, but then I notice she’s holding a mango in it. “Good morning, neighbor.”

  I look from the mango to her glittering blue eyes and shake off the momentary shock of being unexpectedly greeted by a Technicolor goddess. “Good morning.” She smiles, and it makes her look younger. Innocent. Friendly. I take off my male admiring female hat and put back on my neighbor greeting neighbor hat.

  “This is for you.” She shakes the mango like a maraca. Her hips follow the silent rhythm that only she’s hearing. “Little housewarming gift.”

  I take it reluctantly. “A mango?” I question. I hope my surprise doesn’t sound inconsiderate.

  She shrugs and when she does my eyes are drawn to the words tattooed below her collarbone, Life blooms in second chances. “Sorry, I know it’s a little unconventional, but it’s all I have.”

  My hand reflexively tries to hand the mango back at her admission. “You should keep it then. If it’s all you have.” That sounded stupid. She wasn’t making a literal statement. Think before you speak, Seamus.

  She smiles at my response and gently places both hands on top of the fruit in my right hand and slowly pushes it back until it’s touching my chest. “It’s a gift. Keep it. There’s this store a few miles down the street.” She raises her eyebrows as if she’s letting me in on a secret. “It’s called a supermarket. They sell replacements.” Her smile softens her teasing, and I find myself chuckling a little with her.

  “Okay. Well, thank you…for the housewarming mango…” I pause and lift my eyebrows and chin, silently requesting her name.

  “Faith,” she says as she turns and walks to descend the stairs. There’s a bounce in her step that reminds me of Kira when she’s playing. It’s carefree. She glances back over her shoulder and waves. “Nice to meet you…”

  When she pauses on my name I fill in the blank, “Seamus.”

  “Nice to meet you, Seamus.” When she says it, it sounds like she means it. That it really was nice to meet me. Nice. Genuine nice is such a rarity.

  “Nice to meet you, too, Faith.” I look down at the mango in my hand and repeat the next word only for me, “Nice.” It feels at odds with the bitterness; the bitterness resents even the fleeting consideration and stomps it into oblivion.

  I shut the door and take the mango to the kitchen where Rory asks, “What’s that?”

  I tuck it away in the refrigerator while I answer him, “Housewarming gift from the neighbor.”

  “Looks like fruit,” he responds dryly.

  “It is.”

  He’s looking at me for further explanation while he crunches through his slice of toast.

  “A mango,” I offer.

  “That’s right weird.” Rory sounds so proper with the accent.

  “It’s a bit odd, yeah,” and I quickly add, “but it was nice too,” because I don’t want my kids putting the weirdo label on the neighbor on day two.

  Hope your day is as awesome as you are

  present

  “Kira, darlin’, you need to wear real clothes today. It’s your first day of kindergarten.”

  She tilts her head to the right. She always does this when she’s contemplating a comeback. She negotiates everything. “I want to wear this.”

  “It’s a nightgown, not acceptable for school.” I counter while making three bologna sandwiches for their lunches.

  “It’s a dress,” she challenges sweetly, complete with batting eyelashes.

  “Nice try. It’s a nightgown with a cat wearing a tiara on it that says I’m feline like a princess. Nope. Not wearing it to school.” It’s not that their school is strict on dress code, but I know a nightgown would earn me a call from the office as soon as she walked in the door.

  She slips down from her chair at the kitchen table. It’s one fluid movement, sulking down out of the chair, rather than standing from it. She grabs Pickles the cat from the table and looks determined as she heads to her room. That determination will translate in the nightgown being replaced with something equally as obscure, I’m sure of it. Kira is agreeable but she has a rebellious streak. Problems are rectified quickly, but always with a twist. And always with a sweet smile I can’t say no to.

  “You want some help picking something out?” I call after her. Getting her dressed is always a production. She takes forever.

  “Nope. I’ve got this, Daddy.”

  I put extra pickles on Kira’s sandwich, wrap them all in baggies, and put them in their insulated lunch sacks along with a banana and a juice box. And then I grab the pizza flyer that’s lying on top of a pile of junk mail on the counter, tear it into thirds and I write the following note on each of them, along with tons of hearts because it embarrasses the boys, and put them in their lunch sacks along with the food:

  When I walk into the living room, Rory is sitting on the couch with his backpack in his lap. He’s fiddling with the straps, needlessly adjusting them. He’s always been fidgety. “It would be ace if they had a quidditch team at my new school.”

  “Yes, it would. But alas, Montgomery Academy is not for wizards. Sorry, mate.” I play along because I can tell he’s nervous about the first day at his new school. He likes it when I call him mate, the little prideful smirk on his face every time I say it tells me so.

  “You think there’s a chance I could be a wizard, though? Maybe I just haven’t discovered my powers yet?” he says with a straight, hopeful face.

  “No such luck. You’re a Muggle. No powers. Except your sense of humor.” I wink and walk out of the room to check on Kira and Kai.

  “I’d rather turn someone into a toad than make them laugh,” he yells as I walk down the hall.

  “Ribbit,” I yell back.

  He laughs. I love to hear that laugh. It’s hard earned, and I feel triumphant when I can coax it out of him.

  Kira is standing in the kids’ bedroom wearing a pink skirt with yellow polka dots, a blue plaid shirt, lime green flip-flops, and a sparkly tiara. I’d likely be a bit disappointed if her outfit matched. “You look beautiful, princess. Your chariot awaits. Grab your backpack. We’re off.” I smile as I hang my hand low, palm exposed.

  She giggles and picks up her backpack from the floor near the closet and high fives me as she walks through the door into the hallway.

  I knock on the closed bathroom door. “You ready, Kai?”

  He’s brushing his teeth when he answers the door, but gives me a thumbs up.

  We’re all loaded up in the car by seven-thirty and on our way to the schools—two of them. Theirs and mine. Their school, Montgomery Academy, is the neighborhood charter school, kindergarten through eighth.

  Before the divorce, we lived twenty miles from here, which meant the kids had to change schools when we moved. I feel guilty about that, but it made sense to be closer to my job. And the apartment is affordable. Our old neighborhood wasn’t. But I still feel guilty. And guilt is heavy, like an anchor holding me in place and hindering any and all advancement.

  Disturbingly human

  present

  “Isn’t that our neighb
or?” Kira asks.

  “She looks knackered,” Rory adds.

  It takes me a few seconds to scan the people gathered on the beach and to translate knackered into American English. And when I see Faith standing on a milk crate on the boardwalk a few feet from the sand, both make sense. “Yes, that’s Faith. And she does look tired.” The kids like Faith. They’ve all met her in passing and think she’s nice and funny.

  She’s holding a sign that reads Free Hugs. Everything about her looks exhausted, from her mildly slouched posture, to her half-lidded eyes, to the sallowness of the skin on her face, but her smile shines true and pure through the fog. It’s the beacon that lures people in. As I stand here with my children, we watch person after person approach her. And each time she steps off her milk crate, puts her poster board sign on the sand, and she hugs them. Sometimes the recipient is enthusiastic. Sometimes the recipient is shy and guarded. Sometimes the hugs are quick and sometimes they linger on for five to ten seconds. That doesn’t sound like a long time, but when you’re trading physical contact with a complete stranger, five to ten seconds is an eternity. My emotions sway from complete and utter awe, to cringe-worthy apprehension, to cautious alarm for her safety within the span of the few minutes we look on. But, what’s most astounding to me is that no matter what Faith receives from the huggee, she as the hugger consistently delivers a sound, loving, strong, heartfelt embrace. She’s consciously transmitting kindness to each person through touch. It’s the most disturbingly human thing I’ve seen in a very long time.

  I wish I could say it was the most beautifully human thing I’ve seen in a very long time, but my knee-jerk reaction to the display is fear. Because what I’m seeing, when it’s distilled down to its most basic element…is love.

  And love equals fear to me.

  And divorce.

  Damn.

  Told you I was bitter.

  Kira is antsy as hell to run to Faith for a hug. She’s a hugger herself and, even at five, she knows she’s discovered one of her own. “Daddy, can I give Faith a hug?”

  My mouth is saying, “No,” while my head is nodding yes.

  I don’t even realize the contradictory denial and permission I’ve just given until she wrinkles up her forehead in confusion and asks again, “Can I give Faith a hug?”

  This time, I don’t let my mouth answer and my head nods.

  She runs across the sand as her brothers and I wait a few dozen feet away. Kira stands in line behind an elderly woman and a twenty-something guy. When it’s Kira’s turn, Faith recognizes her immediately and drops to her knees before bundling Kira into an embrace. Kira blooms into the hug. She nuzzles her head into Faith’s shoulder and she wiggles slightly with every second or two that passes. The wiggles are the excitement she can’t contain bursting to the surface and breaking free. But after ten seconds she settles into a still, contented, gentle squeeze. It’s the hug she gives me every night. It’s the hug that says I trust you, I feel safe around you, and I love you. It melts my heart to be on the receiving end, but to watch her give it to someone she barely knows is startling. Kids are excellent judges of character. Instincts are sharp before the cynicism of time decays them to the point they’re null and void, useless to most adults. Or maybe we’re just good at ignoring them the older we get.

  When Kira returns to us post-hug, she’s beaming like her heart is burning so bright it’s lighting her up from the inside out. I silently thank Faith for giving my daughter this moment. This experience that reaffirmed to her how magical kindness feels when it fills up your being.

  Kira wants us to do it too. She tells us we should all give Faith a hug. Kai, Rory, and I decline, a united front of manliness. Though for a split second I wish my boys would go get a hug and feel what their sister was gifted. Their mother has been gone for a month now, and she was never a hugger. Then the split second wish evaporates as I watch my boys continue our walk back to apartment three.

  And my bitterness feels like sadness.

  It hurt like hell and we named him Kai

  past

  I never realized how much I craved Seamus’s full attention until it was gone. It’s not that he smothers me with it, but he’s always present. Always adoring and takes his end of our relationship and marriage seriously. He nurtures it: with thoughtful comments, encouragement, praise, compliments, open conversation, support, touch, sex, kindness, and care. And I feel the love in each of them. Not over-the-top, put on love, but genuine it’s-who-I-am-in-my bones love. He doesn’t have to try; it’s effortless.

  I greedily take everything he gives me; it feeds my insatiable ego, and I piecemeal it in return. Just enough to keep him on the hook.

  But when the baby was born I felt the tide turn, an instantaneous shift in attention. I don’t want to share his attention. It’s mine.

  The very moment the doctor pulled that gelatinous laden, squawking life form from my body and said, “It’s a boy,” Seamus’s face ignited with a look of love like I’ve never seen. It was so intense I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t witnessed it myself, firsthand.

  It felt like my lungs deflated with each swell of Seamus’s. They laid the baby on my chest, but all I could do was watch Seamus fall in love. Not with me, but with the tiny human I’d just harbored for nine months and given life to. He should be looking at me with adoration for the sacrifice I’d just made. But he couldn’t because he was never going to see anything but the baby.

  Seamus’s hand moved, and I could sense that he was stroking the baby’s head with a loving gentleness I’m sure had never been bestowed upon another in all of human history. It should have been heartwarming.

  But instead, it hurt like hell.

  “I think we should name him Kai, after my grandfather. It means ocean or sea.” He said it softly, reverently, with tears glistening in his eyes.

  My lungs still vacant, all of the air drawn out by the betrayal I felt, left me unable to speak, so I nodded. And we named him Kai.

  Stretch marks are for life

  past

  “I’m going back to work tomorrow.” I know they’re words he doesn’t want to hear. Seamus wants me to take advantage of the six weeks maternity leave that Marshall Industries offers their employees.

  “It’s only been three weeks, Miranda. Give yourself some more time.” He’s holding a sleeping Kai in his arms; contented baby, contented daddy, the picture of familial perfection.

  “I don’t need time. I need to get back into my old routine. I think it’s the only thing that will help.” I’ve feigned post-partum depression and have been subtly planting the seeds since Kai’s delivery, lobbying that a quick return to work will help me bounce back. I’m a year into my dream job and can’t afford time off. Time off gives my co-workers a competitive edge, and I’ll be damned if anyone gets an edge on me. Time off doesn’t fit into my plans. The twelve to fourteen hour work days I thrive on is what fits into my plans. It’s what makes promotions, raises, and titles possible.

  He’s inwardly sighing, I can see it, but he’s also trying to be supportive of my fragile— fictional, unbeknownst to him— emotional state. “Are you sure this is what you need? That it will help?”

  I nod. Damn right this will help. This is my façade and everyone’s playing into it flawlessly. Seamus graduated with his degree two weeks before the baby was born on June first and doesn’t start his high school counseling job until mid-August. He’s doted on Kai twenty-four seven. I haven’t touched a bottle, changed a diaper, given a bath, or gotten up in the middle of the night. All my choice, of course, but Seamus is over the moon happy to be a dad and do it. To pick up my slack. I knew he would. He’s the goddamn patron saint of parenthood.

  So, off to work I go. Leaving parenting to Seamus so I can focus on my career.

  This baby stuff turned out to be a piece of cake.

  Except the stretch marks, those sons of bitches are for life.

  Forgotten and discarded, that pisses me off

 
present

  I’m watching Kai clutching my cell phone in his hand holding it to his ear. The grip he has on it is fueled by the anxious hope that she’ll answer this time.

  He’s standing on the landing outside our front door on the W…E mat. I can see him through the window from my seat on the couch, and I can hear the silence of an unanswered call through the open window.

  When the voicemail prompt directs him to leave a message, his shoulders collapse in defeat and my heart twists. His voice is shaky when he speaks. “Hey. It’s Kai. Just checking in. Again. Looks like you’re busy…or whatever. Again. Bye.” And though I heard the muted sadness in his voice, I doubt she will.

  It’s been two weeks since she’s talked to her kids. She’s on her honeymoon in the south of France with him. She texted exactly fourteen days ago to inform me they’d just eloped and were on their way to Europe for three weeks. She said she’d check in with the kids every couple of days. I begged her not to make a promise she couldn’t keep.

  She hasn’t called once.

  Kai calls her instead.

  He leaves messages when she doesn’t answer.

  Meanwhile, I bite my tongue. What I want to do is call her and say, “You’re a selfish bitch and a horrible mother.” Instead, I text her, The kids miss you and would love to talk to you. Or, when I want to scream into the phone, “You’ve ruined my fucking life!” I take a deep breath and text, Please call your kids tonight. They need to hear your voice.

  My kids are beginning to feel forgotten. Discarded.

  That pisses me off.