Sleepwalking in Daylight. Elizabeth Flock

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СКАЧАТЬ when there’s not enough love? What if, when you look at your husband you feel blank like a piece of notebook paper?

      I remember my mother leaning over the bathroom sink applying coral lipstick, checking her teased hair to make sure the bouffant was not too big because big is tacky. I would sit on the edge of the bathtub, watching her wave wet with nail polish fingertips, getting ready to go out with my dad. Even when she wasn’t in it, the bathroom smelled like nail polish, Joy perfume and White Rain hair spray. Her closet had sachets so her clothes all smelled like roses, so that’s what she was: petals and softness and color.

      Mom’d say things like, “Rule Number One, never ever leave the house without lipstick.” She put it on right after brushing her teeth and as soon as I was allowed to wear it, I did the same thing. She told me Dad never ever saw her without it. She said in a fire there are two things you need to do before you run out, lipstick and mascara. I started having all kinds of nightmares involving fire and she told me that Dad always kept fresh batteries in the smoke detectors, he’s that kind of father, she said. For a long time if someone mentioned their father I’d ask if he changed the batteries in the smoke detectors.

      I remember she’d tell me I was meant for greatness and boy oh boy just wait something special was surely in store and boy oh boy would I look back and laugh at how I never believed her. I didn’t believe her when she said I would meet someone who I would love more than chocolate. I didn’t believe her when she said I would love being married just like she did or when she said just you wait, Samantha. You’ll see. The love you’ll have for your children will be beyond your imagination.

      It was definitely beyond my imagination the work it took to live day to day with Cammy. Lynn’s son, Tommy, was only a few months old at the time, so we hadn’t been able to spend time together, with or without the kids. Forget babysitters. No one had the patience for Cammy. Our social worker said the more exposure Cammy had to other kids her age, the better off she’d be. I thought I’d try the Mommy & Me class at our health club.

      When you have a child born addicted to drugs you notice things you never before gave a second thought to, like taking Cam to the club. I’d never heard the loud music pumping bass like a punch, coming in through the revolving doors, which alone were confusing to her, I could see. I hadn’t thought of lights being particularly bright, but they were suddenly blinding. The line of people checking in felt interminable—had it always taken so long?

      All this made Cammy hysterical. Hysterical. People turned around. They stared. Some shook their heads like I was a criminal for bringing her here. I found myself embarrassed. Looking back, I wish I’d said, “Really? Really. You’re upset about the noise my daughter’s making and you don’t mind Wang Chung blaring overhead?” Deep down, though, I couldn’t blame them. I was one of them not so long ago.

      By the time I signed us in, my arm was breaking under the constant squirm of frantic Cammy. My other shoulder was pinched in the straps of the baby bag I hadn’t been able to readjust. I was sweating, passing the spin studio. The pilates room. The office for personal trainers. I was walking past my former life. By the time we made it to class I was exhausted. I looked in through the window in the door and all the moms were talking with each other. So pleasant. Then I looked at their kids. The class was for mothers and their two-year-olds. They were strict about the age apparently. So when I looked in at them I was shocked to see they were nearly twice Cammy’s size. I looked from her to them and back at her. They were healthy of course. They’d been breast-fed healthy milk. They’d had carefully scrutinized pregnancies. The babies were all bobbing up and down happily on their mothers’ laps, waiting for class to start. I turned and whisked us both out of there and never again went to the health club.

      Bob and I went days without talking. It was a dance. Bob somehow sleeping through the cries in the night. Sometimes I knew he was faking sleep. He was teaching me a lesson. I was the one who wanted this baby. This child born addicted. If I wanted her so badly, he snored to me, I should be the one taking care of her. I felt in over my head but I wouldn’t admit it. I couldn’t bear to hear Bob say I told you so. I also wondered if he’d suggest returning her. Picking out another. Like a too-tight pair of shoes you need a half size bigger.

      We passed each other silently. He’d dress for work while I stroked Cammy’s belly, trying to calm her. The house was in a constant state of Cammy’s moods. When we did speak it was never above a whisper. And our conversations weren’t conversations but directives. Bullet points.

      “How’s she doing today?” he’d whisper on his way through the kitchen to the front hall to hang up his coat and change to house shoes. He never waited for an answer. Or, “We need diapers,” I’d whisper. He’d act like this was quite the imposition. Like it was the final straw when really he did the bare minimum. Or, “Can you pop this in the mail when you go out?” He’d tap the bills into a pile.

      I was too exhausted to ask him for help. I was too tired to fight with him about it. I should have said something. Maybe I did. But nothing changed.

      Sometimes I’d make more of an effort.

      “How was work today?” I’d whisper.

      All of this while Cammy either slept or squirmed in my arms. I held her constantly. I developed biceps. Bob would try to hold her, but if she cried too hard he’d hurry her back to me and stalk out of the room.

      It takes years to realize the impact an event has on your life. You don’t see it at the time. Then much later you have perspective.

      Not in this case. I knew, as it was unfolding, that it was tragic. The whole thing. I’d bitten off more than I could chew with Cammy. Maybe I could’ve done better if Bob had helped, but that wasn’t in the cards. I didn’t know the man moving in and out of our house. He wasn’t even a roommate. He was a stranger. With Cammy asleep in my arms I’d look across the room at him and cock my head in wonder at his coldness. I knew he was hurt that our life had become all about Cammy, but I couldn’t have imagined he’d take it out on her. I never thought he’d withdraw completely. Many times I’d cry right along with Cammy. I remember the ache of it. I remember feeling lonelier than I ever had in my life. Lynn made efforts to relieve me, give me a break, but I shooed her off. She had Tommy to worry about. Besides, no one could handle Cammy as well as I could, I told myself. It was true. Other friends stopped by with baby gifts, but they’d back out the door within minutes, Cammy’s cries were that primal and unstoppable. Never-ending. So when the door closed behind my well-meaning neighbors and friends, I’d cry right along with my daughter.

      Fast-forward in time and here I am, living a life I never imagined. I lie here in bed and I feel the sheets move to the rise and fall of my husband’s breathing. I listen to the clicking his mouth makes when his tongue gets stuck to the roof of his mouth and I wonder how long it will take him to come to the surface of sleep just shallow enough for his brain to remind itself to create more saliva. Click. Click. Click. That is the sound of our marriage. Like the ticking of a clock. His mouth makes the noise of our marriage.

      Cammy

      Sometimes I wish my mother was dead. I wouldn’t want her to die painfully or anything. Just, like, in her sleep. Only because … it’s just that … I mean, if she was dead no one would blame me for wanting to find my real mother. If Samantha was dead I wouldn’t hurt anyone’s feelings. My real mom would say things like I knew they’d be good parents and I know I can’t replace her but I’d like to be whatever kind of mother you’ll let me be. Bob would be fine with just the boys, and with Samantha gone I wouldn’t feel like I’m betraying them, like I sometimes do now. Bob and the boys would come over to my real mom’s house and we’d make them dinner and fill her in on all our stories.

      Monica’s СКАЧАТЬ