Seven Year Switch Read online

  “Yeah,” I said. “Seven years of child support.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  I found the disconnect button on my cell phone and pushed it.

  Anastasia came back and sat down at the table. “Who was that?” she asked.

  Little pitchers have big ears my mother would have said. It was actually one of the few things I could still remember her saying.

  She hadn’t been much of a mother. Or maybe it was just that she didn’t really need much from anybody, so she assumed I didn’t either. My mother was her own best company. Her idea of a good time was to pop a Swanson’s chicken pot pie in the oven for each of us and curl up with a good book until the timer went off.

  We didn’t go to church, or museums, or movies, and she didn’t invite friends over. She went to her secretarial job, came home, got up the next day, and did it all over again. On weekends she just spent more time reading.

  Pictures of my father were the only things that brightened up our two-bedroom apartment. He’d died before I turned two, but I’d memorized his smile from the photos—two on the bookcase in the living room, one on my mother’s bedside table. I’d managed to convince myself that I could remember him not only picking me up, but also throwing me up in the air and catching me as I giggled my way back down into his arms. He seemed fun and nice and handsome, but more than that, even in photos he seemed alive, so much more alive than my mother.

  As soon as I was old enough, I spent most of my energy trying to attach myself to other families. Big, messy families with lots of kids and noise. Families who sat down at long dinner tables together, instead of eating in front of the television on two little fold-out TV tables. Families who piled their kids into the station wagon and went skating or bowling or to the drive-in.

  As I headed into my teenage years, other girls my age started choosing their friends based on social status or shared interests, but I continued to pick mine for their families. And then I tried to wiggle my way in and blend like a chameleon, hoping against hope that they wouldn’t notice me and make me go home.

  I studied hard, mostly to avoid having to live a boring life like my mother. I knew I wanted a fascinating career, but beyond that, things got a little bit vague. I thought maybe I’d become some new hybrid, a little bit Jane Goodall, only I’d study people instead of primates, and a whole lotta Margaret Mead, but with a less complicated personal life. They were the role models I wanted my mother to be. Sometimes I’d imagine that I’d grown up a wild child frolicking with Jane and the apes. Once in college I caught myself just before I told a classmate Margaret Mead was my great-aunt.

  As set as I was on a big career, I also couldn’t wait to fill my life with a family of my own. My husband would come from a big, boisterous clan, with zillions of cousins. I’d been thrilled when Seth’s family fit the bill. But they’d all drifted away after Seth took off. Or maybe I’d pulled away.

  Nature or nurture, a family larger than two seemed miles beyond my reach.

  “Mom?” Anastasia said. “Who was that?”

  She put her plate on the table and reached for her pink headband. I looked at my beautiful daughter, her trusting almond eyes, the dusting of freckles across her nose. Her father’s freckles.

  I had absolutely no idea how to handle this. I picked up a piece of chicken and black bean quesadilla, then put it down again. “No one,” I said. “Just a work call.”

  After we cleared our dinner dishes and placed them in the rickety old dishwasher, Anastasia tore a piece of lined paper from her notebook and placed it on the table. She flipped through her spelling book until she’d found this week’s words, all with a silent e at the end. Her teacher gave a pretest on Monday and a final test on Friday. The homework was to practice every night in between.

  I’d had the exact same homework assignment at Anastasia’s age. My mother taught me to fold a sheet of paper lengthwise, then write my spelling words in a long column on one side. To practice, I’d look at each word, memorize it, and flip the paper over to test myself as I wrote it from memory. My mother read her book on the sofa in the next room.

  Anastasia picked up her favorite pen, pink with a fluff of purple feathers on the top. She tickled her nose with it while she waited for the first word.

  “Ready?” I said.

  She nodded.

  “Okay,” I said. “Struggle. Sometimes mothers struggle to know the right thing to do.”

  “Struggle,” Anastasia said as she wrote. “Sometimes kids struggle to wake up in the morning.”

  “Bruise,” I said. “When you’ve been hurt, a bruise can take a long, long time to go away.”

  “Bruise,” Anastasia said. “When you get a bruise, you don’t even need a Band-Aid.”

  “Pledge,” I said. “I pledge to always try to do the right thing for my daughter.”

  “Pledge,” Anastasia said. The purple feathers of her pen danced as she wrote. “I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America.”

  “Jungle,” I said. “It’s a jungle out there.”

  “Jungle,” Anastasia said. “I want to go to a jungle to see the monkeys and orangutans.”

  “Surprise,” I said. “When you least expect it, life can sometimes bring a big surprise.”

  “Surprise,” Anastasia said. She took her time, forming each letter carefully in her big, loopy script. “Kids always love a big surprise.”

  This list was killing me. What were these fourth grade spelling book people thinking?

  I took a deep breath. “Plate,” I said. “When company comes, you set an extra plate.”

  “Plate,” my sweet, innocent, vulnerable little daughter said, her fluffy pen poised over the sheet of lined white paper.

  I couldn’t take it anymore. I put my hand over hers. “Honey…”

  “Wait,” she said. She shook off my hand and started writing. “When I have my own house, everyone who visits will get their own pink plate.”

  “Honey,” I said again.

  She finally looked up. When she saw my face, she tilted her head.

  “Guess what?” I said, trying to make my voice both casual and reassuring. It sounded totally phony, even to me.

  She narrowed her eyes. “What?”

  The words felt stuck in my throat. I pushed them out. “Your dad called. He wants to see you.”

  Her face lit up instantly, brilliantly, the way a flick of the switch lights up a cold, dark hallway.

  “My dad?” she said.

  I nodded.

  “My dad?” she said.

  I nodded again.

  Anastasia’s pink and purple pen belly-flopped to the table. “Come on, hurry. I want to see my dad. Now.”

  When I’d rehearsed this conversation in my head, it had gone a lot differently. I’d pictured us sitting next to each other on the couch, the way we would have in a sitcom. I’d put my arm around my daughter and say just the right thing. She’d say just the right thing back. Then we’d cut to a commercial.

  I reached for something worthy of the enormity of the situation, but it felt like my brain was packed in Styrofoam. “Um,” I said. “Not to night. Sunday. He’s coming here Sunday. For a visit.”

  Anastasia jumped out of her chair. “Now. I need to talk to him right now.”

  “Honey,” I said. “It’s already all set up for Sunday.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “On the phone then. Call him.”

  “Sweetie, I can’t. It’s only…”

  “Fine,” she said. “Then I’ll call him.”

  We stared each other down. I looked away first.

  “Fine,” I said. I unplugged the headphone from my cell phone. I found the number of the last call. Technically, I was still working, but any GGG calls that came in would go through to voice mail, and I could always call back.

  I looked up. Anastasia’s hand was out. She was tapping her foot.

  I pushed Call and handed her the phone.

  “Daddy?” she said a mo
ment later. Her voice was calm, confident. “Daddy, it’s your daughter, Anastasia.” She waved me away with her nontelephone hand.

  Tears blinded my eyes, and I turned my head quickly so she wouldn’t see them. It was a good thing I knew my way to the bathroom by heart, because I might not have found it otherwise.

  I put the lid down and sat on the toilet seat. I sobbed quietly, rocking back and forth, my hands crossed over my chest and wrapped around me like the hug I needed. If I’d had to take a test to define the emotions I was feeling, I would have failed miserably. I felt sad, mad, glad, bad—maybe all of Anastasia’s short a spelling words rolled into one big muddy mess. Mostly, I wanted to crawl under my covers and stay there.

  I forced myself to blow my nose and get up. I managed to avoid my image in the mirror while I splashed cold water on my face. I listened at the bathroom door for the sound of Anastasia’s voice, but I couldn’t hear anything.

  I tiptoed into the living room. Anastasia was sitting on the couch, flipping through the album of photos of Seth.

  “Hey,” I whispered. “How did it go?”

  She smiled up at me. “We’re having a welcome home party. I’m going to make the decorations, and Dad’s going to bring the presents. What do you want to do?”

  I looked at her. I twisted my mouth into a smile.

  Scream, I thought. While the daughter and the father plan their reunion, what the mother wants to do is scream.

  11

  NOT THAT I WAS AN EXPERT, BUT IT SEEMED TO ME THAT my best bet for removing the rusty metal railings was to chip away at the cement that anchored the posts to the ground.

  I wasn’t exactly the kind of person who got all domestic under stress. But I’d been awake for hours, straightening up my bedroom/office and cleaning the bathroom. I’d even started washing the windows. My plan was that I’d keep picking away on the insides of the windows, then move on to the outsides, so they’d all be spotless by Sunday.

  Maybe it was my way of staying anchored to my house, when everything in me wanted to grab Anastasia and run. My brain knew I wouldn’t do it, but my body wasn’t cooperating. I was wired with nervous energy and truly understood the expression jumping out of my skin. I was ready to jump out of my skin and my life.

  I slid the flat end of the screwdriver into a crack in the cement. I couldn’t care less what Seth thought of my housekeeping, or anything else, for that matter. But a part of me wanted him to see firsthand that even though he’d stacked the deck against me, I’d managed not only to carry on, but to make everything I touched sparkle, literally as well as figuratively. Anastasia might need occasional, evenly spaced visits from him—what child wouldn’t—but, even though he owed me—big time—I didn’t need a thing from him.

  I hit the other end of the screwdriver with the hammer. Nothing. I tried wiggling it back and forth. Still nothing. I stepped back and gave the metal railing a whack with the hammer.

  It let out a loud bell-like ring. The kids at the bus stop all turned in my direction. Anastasia shook her head to let me know that I was the most embarrassing mother ever.

  “Sorry,” I mouthed.

  The bus rolled down the street and stopped. I watched Anastasia fall into line with the other kids, climb the steps, and disappear from view. She didn’t reappear, which meant she’d chosen a seat on the side of the bus I couldn’t see.

  The bus driver beeped.

  Cynthia’s three kids came running out of their house. Lexi was combing her hair with a wide-tooth comb. Treasure was still zipping up her backpack. Parker took a final bite of his Pop-Tart and threw the wrapper over his shoulder as he ran.

  Cynthia jogged down the sidewalk behind them. She was wearing a baby blue tank top and a matching tennis skirt. “I saw that,” she yelled. “Get back here right now and pick that up, young man.”

  Parker half turned around.

  The bus driver gunned the motor.

  “Parker,” Cynthia yelled. “You know how I feel about remembering what planet we’re on.”

  I sprinted over and picked up the Pop-Tart wrapper. “Got it,” I yelled.

  Parker climbed up the stairs of the bus. The doors barely cleared his backside when they closed.

  “Say thank you to Miss Murray,” Cynthia yelled after the bus, though I noticed she made no effort to collect Parker’s Pop-Tart wrapper.

  She turned to me. “Is it Ms. Murray or Miss Murray? I never know what to tell my kids to call people when they don’t have a husband.”

  “Actually,” I said, “I seem to have one again. At least technically.”

  It wasn’t so much that I’d decided to confide in Cynthia when I said it. It was more like trying out the sound of something in an empty auditorium.

  “Where is he?” she said. She squinted in the direction of my house, as if she’d need a husband sighting before she believed me.

  I laughed. “He’s not here.” I gave the railing another whack with the hammer.

  Cynthia put her hands over her ears. “Oh, you’re so lucky. Make-up sex is just the best.”

  “No, no, no,” I said, even though her hands were still over her ears. “It’s not like that.”

  Cynthia kept her hands on her ears but separated her fingers. “Oh, give it a chance. It definitely is. When Decker and I have just finished fighting, the sex is almost perfect.”

  “Almost perfect?” I smiled. “Isn’t that an oxymoron?”

  Cynthia smiled back. “Sometimes. But he’s my oxymoron.”

  I wondered if it would be worth rewinding to the part where Cynthia first walked out her door, so that we could start all over again. “Hey,” I said. “Remember those power tools you mentioned? Do you think I could borrow one, maybe a chain saw or something?”

  “Oh, right,” Cynthia said. She walked away.

  I hit the railing again. Then I traded the hammer for the screwdriver. I squatted down, stabbed the screwdriver into another crack at the base of a different post, and wiggled the handle around and around. Eventually I managed to release a tiny sprinkle of cement dust. At this rate, I’d have one of the two railings down by Thanksgiving. The good news was I was starting to sweat—who knew that demolition was such good exercise. No wonder you never saw carpenters jogging down the street.

  I stood up. Cynthia was walking my way, one hand swinging a big silver and pink case. It looked like a heftier version of the Barbie briefcase Anastasia had talked me into buying her a few years ago.

  “Here you go,” Cynthia said.

  It was surprisingly heavy. “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll return it as soon as I finish.”

  “No rush,” she said. “I never use it. I just take it with me when I’m trying to get a job.”

  No wonder she’d only had one client since she’d moved here.

  She turned and started walking away. “If I’m not back in time for the bus…,” she said over her shoulder.

  “Got it,” I said.

  I sat down on my front steps and snapped open the case’s two silver locks. The tools were all the pinkest of pink: a pink hammer, a pink box of nails, pink wrenches, pink pliers, a pink level, two rolls of pink duct tape in different widths, pink gloves, even a pink bandanna and pink safety goggles. For contrast, the case was lined in black velvet, and each item had its own home behind a loop of pink elastic.

  It was both brilliant and a little bit scary.

  I’d been hoping for a miniature pink chain saw, but no such luck. Maybe it was actually a good thing, since I wasn’t sure I’d have the guts to use a chain saw anyway, even a pink one.

  The closest thing I could find was a small hand saw with a pink handle and cute little teeth. I slid it out from its slot in the case and sat down cross-legged on the walkway. I positioned the blade on one of the posts, as close to the ground as I could get it, and started sawing away.

  The tiny pink saw was amazing. It bit right into the rusty metal. I sawed back and forth, and back and forth, building up speed, feeling the burn of unused muscle
s in my arms and back. I imagined the old railing down, the new one up, my house looking like a page from Coastal Living magazine, all by the time Anastasia stepped off the bus.

  A little ways into the post, the resistance got tougher. I moved onto my hands and knees so I could put my whole body into my sawing. I was working up a good sweat now. No wonder people got into the home improvement thing. Maybe I could look into a free class at Home Depot. Maybe Anastasia could take it with me.

  Exactly midway through the post, the saw got stuck. I tried pushing. Then I tried pulling. I tried pushing some more. It didn’t budge. I tried to wiggle the saw free. It stayed stuck.

  I rooted through Cynthia’s silver and pink case, section by section, looking for something, anything.

  Finally I went into the house and started going through my cupboards. There weren’t a lot of options, so I settled for a can of Pam. I headed back outside. To save time, I shook the can of cooking spray vigorously for the recommended sixty seconds as I walked. I sprayed the saw and the post carefully, making sure I avoided the saw’s pink handle, so it didn’t get slippery.

  I put the Pam down and grabbed the saw by the handle.

  The saw started to move again, smooth as butter. Or at least Pam. “Ah, the indefatigable ingenuity of the pinker sex,” I said out loud.

  Apparently I spoke too soon. One saw forward and half a saw back, and the saw and I were stuck again. I pushed. I pulled. I switched angles. I wiggled. I sprayed the rest of the can of Pam on it.

  I took a step back. A few inches above ground level, Cynthia’s little pink saw stuck out of my rusty metal post like a tomahawk. It would be the first thing Seth saw when he climbed the steps on Sunday, a huge pink flag that I wasn’t even close to having it together after all.

  I grabbed the pink-handled hammer again. I put on the pink safety glasses. I swung back the full length of my arm and let my stupid metal railing have it with all my might.

  I kept swinging and swinging. Somewhere along the line I realized I was swinging at Seth, too, for leaving me, but also for waltzing back into our lives, not when I needed him, but when he felt like it. Once again he was calling the shots, giving me no choice but to deal with it, with him, whether I wanted to or not.