they still aren’t happy with my decision. “I told you why—”
“Told!” Robbie interrupts, his face flushing with bright red blotches. Maybe his acne is flaring up again. “You tell us what you’re doing. You don’t ask what we want!”
That’s kind of how it works since I’m the parent and they’re the children, but I don’t say this. I’ll let them vent. Tonight.
“It’s not fair,” Claire chimes in like a backup singer. This is a chorus she’s sung often.
“You got rid of Dad’s car—”
“Just a loan,” I remind them.
When, or should I say if, Robbie gets his license, the car will be back in the garage, waiting for him. A five-year-old Volkswagen is a little easier to hang on to than a business.
“And his clothes!”
No matter how much he grows, Robbie would never fit into those. Not that Rob had been obese. He’d been a bear of a man, six feet five with broad shoulders, big all over. I thought we’d all agreed that giving his clothes to the Salvation Army was a good thing, something Rob would have liked, giving help to the recent hurricane victims. Rob was the kind of guy who’d willingly give someone the shirt off his back. In the case of the loud Hawaiian shirts he’d favored, though, no one would probably want those.
“You’re getting rid of everything,” Claire says, her words followed by a little hiccupping sob.
Robbie straightens up, just a hair taller than his little sister. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him stand as tall as he is now. “We figure you’re probably selling the house next, so we started packing our stuff.”
So that’s what all the boxes and bags are for.
“C’mon, I’m not selling the house.”
Not that I hadn’t considered it. Living in my dream house without the man who had shared that dream had been a nightmare for a while. Guilt flashes through me, and I think they catch it.
Robbie’s face reddens more, and Claire’s expression gets sulkier. “You want to get rid of every trace of Dad,” he says accusingly.
“It’s not fair.” Claire sings her familiar chorus. “You’ve taken everything of Dad’s away from us!”
It’s not the first time I’ve heard this; they said it all, not as angrily, though, when I first told them of my intention to sell the business. But this is the first time I hear what they haven’t said—that they blame me for taking their father away.
Like I blame Kitty Cupcakes.
And before that the officer who’d brought me the news of Rob’s death.
Rob died in a car accident, having crashed his winter-beater, four-wheel drive vehicle into a tree. At first it had looked as if road conditions, icy even in March thanks to Michigan’s mercurial weather, might have caused the crash.
I’d sworn at the officer for not making the roads safe to drive, although now I’m pretty sure he hadn’t been responsible for that. I think I might have slugged him. In fact, I can’t remember exactly what I did.
I’m glad the kids hadn’t been home that night. I’d sent them over to Emma’s just a little bit before, to return the kitten they’d taken from her barn and sneaked into the house. I’m grateful they didn’t see me like that as I was more out of control than at any other time in my life—what happened in Smiley’s doesn’t even come close.
After the coroner ruled Rob’s death had been caused by a heart attack, I didn’t apologize to Deputy Westmoreland. I should, but I don’t know what to say.
I don’t know what to say to my kids now. I know how much of a release it is to have someone or something else to attack when you’re hurting inside, but they can’t really blame me for their father’s death…unless they think I should have stopped him from eating those cupcakes. Maybe they don’t realize how much I tried, and I should try to convince them that I did. But I don’t think they’re ready to listen to me.
Sometimes you have to let them go….
Despite my sister’s advice ringing in my ears, I follow my kids as they rush out of the kitchen and down the hall to their rooms. Ever since six months ago, I’ve been struggling with that letting-go part of parenting.
Rob’s parents wanted the kids to spend a couple of weeks with them this summer, but they live in Indiana, and that was too far away from me. Because of the business, I hadn’t been able to be away for that long. But I know my in-laws are hurting, too, so we compromised, and I brought the kids down for a weekend.
The kids are not happy I followed them to their rooms now. They’ve turned and are glaring at me from just inside their doorways. So I don’t make things worse; I stop myself from yelling at them for yelling at me. But I can’t think of anything to say in lieu of yelling. They, however, don’t have that problem.
“I hate you!” they both shout before slamming their doors, in such perfect unison that I wonder if they practiced while I was gone. That opinion is the only one they have shared since thinking macaroni and cheese the perfect side dish to every meal, which is probably only marginally healthier than Kitty Cupcakes.
I know they don’t mean it, and that eventually they’ll get over this. They’re good kids, and we’ve always been close. But as I head toward my empty master suite at the other side of the house, I don’t feel so powerful anymore.
Then I remind myself, Wonder Woman didn’t have any kids. Neither did any of Charlie’s Angels.
STAGE 3
I notice the sign as I pull out of the driveway. I’m not sure if I missed it the night before, or if they put it up when they headed out to the bus this morning. It’s a For Sale sign, Worst Offer, for our once happy home.
Despite the sentiment, or shall I say resentment, behind it, I find myself chuckling. Even though their grades, usually straight A’s, have been slipping since school started a few weeks ago, I’m reassured that they’re still smart. Asses. But smart.
They might not be doing their homework lately, as much from laziness as taking advantage of their teacher’s sympathy over their loss, but they worked last night. Between packing up their stuff and making this sign, they were very busy. Mother’s pride spreads warmth through my chest, dispelling some of the tightness their angry words had left me with last night.
I glance in the rearview mirror, at the box in the back of the Tahoe, and chuckle louder. As the tires bounce over the ruts in our private dirt road, I imagine the hula girl swaying madly inside the box.
Just inside town, I drive by the drop box for Goodwill. I should leave the lamp there, but for some reason, possibly the guilt trip the kids laid on me last night, I keep driving on through Stanville. With its canopied storefronts and brick sidewalks, it could grace any Christmas card, it’s that quaint.
I’m almost to work when I remember I don’t work there anymore. Brad asked me to stay on, but I refused, as I don’t believe they really want me there. He was just being sweet, and I wouldn’t feel right about it; the
