Off Her Rocker. Jennifer Archer
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.”
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