a few dusty plaques from clients thanking me for our success. The office walls are a light mint-green, which works nicely to enhance the coral window trim and to add to the liveliness and promote my family unit; there’s an 11 x 17 family portrait along the windowsill in conjunction with various trinkets my daughter, Cheyanne, made several years ago. Finally, on top of my desk is my workload consisting of files that demand attention and a list of clients who I routinely call.
Staring out the window at the city streets now paved in salty, grimy snow, I hear the muffled sounds of voices outside my office begin to fade. Just a few more moments, and I will be heading home as well.
III
Mother and Wife
My cell phone begins to ring as I rush home to my family, and I ignore it. I abhor talking on the phone while driving rush hour. As a general observation, nighttime traffic seems far worse than morning traffic. Maybe it is the tension that everyone feels during this time of night based on a variety of reasons. Second shift is beginning while day shift heads home, people who are more than fashionably late for dinner, and the occasional shopper who didn’t plan to take so long buying groceries—all forced together and barely moving. It is dark at this hour; nothing but red taillights ahead and streetlights above to beckon the eyes. I tell myself that the office and all of my high-maintenance employees (who can leave their work where it belongs) can wait until tomorrow. If it were possible, I am certain work would follow me at all hours. It has taken me years to achieve even a partial separation of my professional and personal lives. Music is an excellent way to shut out the sound of my ever so popular phone, and more often than not, it transforms my mood on my lengthy drive.
When I have a rough day, I sometimes listen to heavy metal that screams scores of truths that many people choose to ignore, while incorporating intense instrumentals. Of course, there’s also dance music that packs a fun punch but tends to increase my risk of getting pulled over for speeding. However, most of the time while driving, I prefer music with lyrics that speak to the heart and distract the mind or, instead, lure my brain into their semantically compelling trap with lyrics and sounds that penetrate my emotional boundaries. Today, I listen to Sade. Sade has a warm yet profound and husky voice. Her stories are ones of love, struggle, and triumph. She’s always classy, with something beautiful and intelligent to say, and incredibly underrated, but I suppose that makes her all the more intriguing. As her music helps to soothe me into my chair, I begin to enjoy the rest of my ride home.
Just outside the city, our 6,700-square-foot home sits on its own hill, overlooking fifteen acres of forested property. A creek crosses one corner of our yard, crowned with a small bridge Bruce and nine-year-old Cheyanne built together last summer. I have such passion for Victorian homes, but it was hard to find one in Massachusetts fully restored and with a decent amount of property for purchase. Moreover, they usually come equipped with impossibly small bathrooms and faulty wiring and almost always require some degree of restoration. My home is completely custom-built, and our architect’s mutual fondness for the Queen Anne era of Victorians is evident by the intimate detail in the woodwork and the obscure designs that he incorporated. I had artistic pursuits that integrate lavish endorsements for all senses, both while working with the architect and with the interior designer. There are Pythagorean symbols with ancient Indian and Egyptian undertones throughout the artwork, and artistic innuendos weaved into the decor telling stories to those who are adept in deciphering the historically contrived esoteric code. Most of the inside of our home is, however, abstract and contemporary. All of our tables are beautifully hand-constructed teak and imported from Italy. The bathrooms are my favorite rooms.
All four bathrooms are fully equipped with vampire burgundy hot tubs that fit four, and separate showers with dual separate showerheads. The beautiful stained glass cathedral windows and black marble floors give a Gothic feel, while the contrasting faux white tiger lily arrangements prevent the room from drowning in the gloom. At present, I’ve gone beyond merely visual pleasure and into the realms of scent, sound, and overall vibe. No room lacks oil diffusers, incense, candles, and some form of sound system; and all rooms are plenty spacious.
I gave Cheyanne the ability to be innovative by allowing her to individualize her surroundings—within reason. It is amazing to be in her little world when I spend time in her room. Cheyanne chose all the colors, and I allowed her to pick her furniture with a sensible parent-approved budget. Her bedroom is ice age blue, with purple crown molding outlining a cobalt-blue ceiling full of glow-in-the-dark stars. Her main source of light is crystal solar system chandelier that dangles above her cherrywood queen-size bed equipped with stuffed anime characters and a deep-green bedspread with a picture of a dancing golden dragon. Though the hallways of her wing are a bland eggshell white, they are outfitted with large black frames displaying her best pieces of colorful art. Her bathroom always smells of cinnamon and baby powder, though she prefers only her guests to use it.
I have been accused of allowing her too much expressive freedom, but to me, it is a gift I have given her—one that has nurtured the type of growth you do not typically see in children her age.
Home at last. It is always such a pleasure to be here in my beautiful home with my small, tight-knit family. My home is my palace—my reward for surviving my past, with such a willful effort to attain it.
Dinner is family time, an opportunity to examine each other’s thoughts and measure growth. I find that routines such as these are usually only boring with boring families. This is not the case with us because we are a trio with a diverse range of hobbies and talents. Our time at the dinner table often extends well into the evening while we converse about a wide range of topics. One example of a topic is to view this world without prejudice and to honor the knowledge that comes from ancient intuition, or subconscious. I also encourage Cheyanne to be open and honest about her thoughts and feeling, so long as there are no hidden intentions backed by primitive thinking such as subjective ignorance endorsed with ego. We lead by example and are diplomatic regarding disagreements while appreciating the knowledge that comes from one another’s perspective. At this very dinner table, we instilled in Cheyanne the understanding that “why” is often more important compared to the ploy that sometimes comes in the form of “what.” We have fed her hungry curiosity with incentives that lead to the true potential of cause and effect. In this way, Cheyanne is less susceptible to becoming compromised by the conundrum of distracting decoys that society often introduces. It is wonderful listening to Cheyanne speak with excitement about her day, especially when it pertains to her experience working on her academic endeavors. She is an incredible student, much to my relief and sanctity. She has many of my gifts and curses including my rebellious overtones. Though I count my blessings, that she’s only a small percentage as defiant as I was, and mainly because I’ve given her fewer reasons to be.
Cheyanne inherited her sensitivity and benevolence from me. As a result, she will overthink and overfeel virtually everything, and I offer her an ear and sympathy because I can honestly relate. I am not strict about a lot of things, but I am extremely strict about a few things. This allows her to vent to me, so long as she respects my rules. My rules are quite simple—tell the truth, be humble, behave kindly, and remain accountable at all times. I forgive her when she makes mistakes, and I’m proud of her as long as she makes an honest effort and doesn’t lose her truth in the process. I don’t allow her to bullshit herself or me, but I’m respectfully compassionate about the truth, especially when the truth is painful. My strategy seems to work because I don’t sense that she is the slightest bit guarded around Bruce or me. He and I, like now, sit at the table with an empty plate, while hers is perfectly full, save for a few pieces of carrots she managed to swallow quickly because she’s so excited about expressing her daily adventures. Once past her history project, and a screenshot of her art projects, some of which are far beyond my shading capabilities, she begins speaking about her favorite teacher.
“Mrs. Whelan is having us work on a poetry project. It’s due Friday, but I was so excited for her to read it, that I submitted mine early.” “That’s
