I took a deep breath and looked over to where the summer school kids were starting their day. Sometimes they released balloons; sometimes they wore masks. Today they were playing musical instruments. The banners that hung from the tall glass windows inside the school were a happy purple, green, and orange.
The kids and the few adults were cheerful, clapping their hands.
“Why are they always so happy?” I asked.
“Huh?” Max said.
“Yeah,” the kid said. “Deddy, why are they so happy?”
In contrast to those parents and their charges, Max and I were wrecks. Max had taken to wearing barefoot running shoes and the same T-shirt he slept in. I was no better in food-stained shorts and a baggy overwashed fishing shirt.
It was just easier this way.
Gone were the pleasures of the unmarried, middle-aged housewife: The peaceful moments contemplating the greens at the farm stand. Strolling with the dogs at Havens Beach and finding the perfect, shiny orange toenail shell. Getting stoned and dancing to pop music. In short, doing all the mindful, healthy—conscious things middle-aged people are supposed to do to live for another thirty years. The assumption being that one actually has the time to dedicate to raising oneself, as opposed to raising actual children.
Now I woke up with a list as long as my arm of things that needed to be done, bought, fixed, or cleaned up.
But my biggest concern was the boy.
Despite the fact that the boy and I were not close and hardly spoke and I’m pretty sure the kid didn’t even like me very much, I had to keep him safe. But most of all, I had to make sure he was happy.
Somehow, I had developed what I call mommy brain.
For instance, two days ago, when we were picking up the boy from the dock where he’d spent another morning at fishing camp, I suddenly found myself studying the other children. Did they like him? Were they interacting with him? Or was he all alone?
Oh my god. Did he have any friends?
The boy, I noticed, seemed different from the other kids. It wasn’t just that he was skinnier. He had a different sensibility that made him appear less civilized. Maybe this was just due to the fact that his father was washing his clothes. They had those deep wrinkles that come from sitting overnight in the dryer.
But so what I thought, as I once again assessed the other children. At least the boy was smart.
And
a fast learner. He’d learned how to ride a bike, play tennis, paddleboard, sectione, and fish. If we were a family living in the wild, having the boy would come in handy. Not a day goes by when that kid doesn’t come home from fishing camp with at least two fish to feed his “parents.”
Please tell me how many kids can do that?
Day Twelve
Several packages arrived. Max cut them open and began removing the peanut packing materials, placing them in a large, heavy salad bowl. It wasn’t what I would have used, but I did not point this out. Instead, I remembered how considerate the father was being and he was teaching his son. I reminded myself that I was having a happy family experience by osmosis and that hopefully my life would not fall apart because I didn’t meet my deadline and I was getting closer and closer to penury.
I leaned in as Max pulled out one of his purchases and unwrapped it. He held it up. “Look son,” he said. “A bonsai tree.”
“What’s a bonsai tree?” the boy asked.
“The bonsai is like a dwarf tree. You know how there are dwarf people? The bonsai is like the same thing but a tree,” the father said. Not the words I would have chosen but I’ve learned not to criticize Max in front of the boy. If I say anything remotely critical about Max, the boy gets upset.
Yesterday, when I was washing a dirty roasting pan and Max was dousing cut-up plums and peaches with alcohol, I made the mistake of calling him weird. The boy immediately became defensive and motioned for me to step outside.
“What’s up, kid?” I asked.
“Don’t you say anything wrong about my deddy. My deddy is not weird.”
“Is weird a bad thing? I think weird is a good thing,” I replied.
The boy looked at me suspiciously. “How would you describe my deddy?”
I immediately suspected this was a trick question. “Well, he travels a lot, so I guess he’s like James Bond.”