20: Back at Last
Originally emailed on Feb. 3, 1999
Well, I'm a college graduate, and employed--but I'll tell you more about that later. The change from student to full-time career woman feels like the smallest of the changes happening in my life right now.
First, Harriet and I were out the other Sunday morning having coffee, and she told me that her grandmother Miriam is feeling overwhelmed at trying to keep up her house all by herself.
"Well, I know that," I said. "That's why I've been going over once a month and doing some deep cleaning for her."
"Yeah," Harriet said, "and Nona and I have been helping out, too. But even so, she feels like it's just too much work for her, and she's decided to sell the house and move."
"Oh, Harriet," I said. "You're not putting her into a nursing home!"
"I'm not putting her anywhere," Harriet said. "You think this is all up to me?"
"Then she is going into a nursing home," I said.
"No," Harriet said. "You don't always listen well, Louella."
I sat in a sullen silence for a moment or two, making sure she knew I didn't like being criticized. She was equally silent, blowing on her coffee impatiently.
"I can't believe," Harriet said finally, "that you blamed Ed for not telling you anything when you make it almost impossible for a person to get a complete sentence out before you jump to conclusions."
"OK, OK," I said. "I'll just sit here and sip my coffee and listen to you until you're done talking." I sipped ostentatiously. "Tell me about Miriam."
"Well, we've decided--'we' including Grandma, just so you know-- that, since she's pretty independent and active still, just a little slow, that she'd do well living with family."
"Not your mother!" I exclaimed.
Harriet glared. "Can you be quiet," she asked, "or do I need to write you a letter?" I looked meek. "No, not my mother," Harriet continued, "me and Nona. She's going to live with me and Nona."
"But she'll still have to climb stairs--" I said. "I mean, hm, how interesting. Pray continue."
"Yes, the stairs are a problem. So we've decided to sell both houses and buy a one-story house for the three of us."
"But there aren't any in our neighborhood," I said. "They're all two-stories--oh. I get it. You're moving into one of those tacky 50's ranches by the golf course. You're leaving the neighborhood."
"We think it's best for Grandma to be with us in a one-story house. So, yes, we're leaving the neighborhood. I wanted to tell you before the For Sale signs go up."
"When do the For Sale signs go up?" I asked.
"This morning," Harriet said.
"Aw, Harriet," I said, "What am I gonna do? We walk back and forth all the time! The boys know they can go to your house or Miriam's any time they need to. It's like they have two extra sets of parents. I feel like you're leaving us all alone."
"We probably won't be more than a five-minute drive away," Harriet said.
"Mark won't be driving for another seven years," I answered.
"Don't be pouty," Harriet said. "Smile at me and I'll buy you another raspberry croissant. And then you can tell me about you and Ed."
"Me and Ed?" I asked. "What's to tell? He's gone this weekend on another spiritual healing retreat. I thought if I got him to talk to me, we'd be able to get closer, but I hardly see him, and when I do he just wants to talk about what his therapist said to him about taking responsibility without blame or shame, or about his 'Unchurched Christians' support group. I finally got him talking, and for four months now he won't shut up--he's got to be telling the whole sordid story to therapists, priests, ministers, other suffering sinners, grocery store clerks. Did I tell you he had a preliminary interview for some network newsmagazine story on churches and homosexuality? I can just see it: 'This former pastor left his church after his anti-gay ministry led to the tragic death by suicide of a gay teen.' Bleh."
"Poor Louella," Harriet said. "Wasn't it Oscar Wilde who said something about the only thing worse than not getting what you want is getting what you want?"
"That may be true with boyfriends," I answered, "but not with raspberry croissants. Let's split one, and then I've got to go. Sam is dropping the boys off in about an hour."
When they arrived, Michael and Sam came in with the boys, looking smug and secretive about something. "Louella, we have something to tell you," Michael said, grabbing me by the shoulders. "You'll be so excited!"
"Will I?" I said. "Do tell."
"We're moving in together," Michael said. "Finally!"
"I thought you already lived together," I said. "Didn't you move into Sam's house about Thanksgiving time?"
"Yes," Michael said, "technically that's true, but I didn't move out of my house. That's the big step! I'm packing up, moving all my little knick-knacks and the stuff at the back of the closets, and putting the old place on the market!"
"On the market?" I said. "You don't own the old place."
"It's just an expression, honey. Anyway, I am putting it on the market--I need to find someone to sublet it, so put the word out, OK?"
"OK," I said. "If I come across anybody looking for an over-priced, very chi-chi apartment, I'll let them know. And congratulations. Really. To you both," I added, smiling at Sam. "It's a big step."
"It's the big commitment," Michael said. "We're in it for the long haul. But I haven't even told you the best part yet--"
"Michael," Sam said. "I said I'd talk to Louella about that later."
"Oh, you big pessimist," Michael said to him. "You think she's witchy just because you were married to her, but I've never slept with her so I know she's sweet as pie, and she's going to be very happy when we tell her that we've decided it's not enough to have just two weekends a month and Wednesday evenings with the boys."
"You want to spend more time with the boys?" I said. "That's great."
Michael shot Sam an "I told you so" look. "More time," he said, "is the understatement of the century. We want a 50/50 time share."
"50/50," I said.
"Yes," Michael said. "We could do it week by week, or by months, or six months at a time, or whatever we think will work out best."
"You want custody?" I asked.
"We want to be real parents," Michael said.
I looked at Sam. "Since when?" I asked.
Sam said, "Now, Louella, I thought we could work this out in a civilized way. They're my sons, too, and Michael loves them like his own kids. Maybe better. We want a chance to spend some serious time with the boys. Right now it feels like every weekend they're with us we spend Friday getting to know each other again and Sunday getting ready to say good-bye. You've had them almost full-time since the divorce. Can't you give me a chance to know what's it's like to be with my sons every day?"
"Have you talked to the boys about it?"
"No," Sam said.
"Not really," Michael said. "We did say we hoped we'd get to see more of them from now on." Sam glared at him. "And that when we bought a bigger place they could each have their own room. And that we'd be sure to have a yard for Hot Rod."
"You want Hot Rod, too?" I asked. At the sound of her name, Hot Rod got up from her bed in the kitchen and padded out to check on us in the living room.
"We thought the boys might like to have her with them when they come to our house," Sam said. "Louella, we're not trying to take anything away from you here, and we don't want to have to go to court to resolve this."
I patted Hot Rod's head. "Let me talk to my lawyer," I said. "And to the boys."
"I want to be with you when you talk to the boys," Sam said. "I don't want you prejudicing them against the idea."
"We'll see," I said. "Give me some time to think things over."
They left. The boys thundered down the stairs from unpacking and demanded to know what I was serving for dinner. "Pizza," I said.
"Domino's?" Mark asked.
"Chef-Boy-R-Dee," I answered.
"That sucks," Mark said. "Dad and Michael never make crappy pizza at home. They always order out."
"You've been getting along with your dad better lately?" I asked.
"He's OK," Mark said. "Michael's cool."
"How do you feel about the idea of spending more time with them? Michael said you'd talked about it."
Mark shrugged. "It'd be OK. Around here I have to spend too much time with girls and my baby brother."
Sammy said, "I like it here."
Mark said, "You would, baby, hanging out with Mom and her girl friends like a sissy boy."
I said, "That's enough, Mark."
"I don't want to live with Dad," Sammy said. "I like to go there for the weekend, but I don't want to go to a new school."
"Who said anything about living with your dad?" I asked. I had not thought about handling shared custody across two school districts, and I filed the question for later worrying.
"Nobody," Sammy answered. "Just Michael. He said now that he's living with Dad we can be like a real family."
"We are a real family," I said. "Anyway, it's all just talk so far. Why don't you go see what I got for you guys yesterday? It's on the TV stand."
"Is this it?" Mark asked, holding up a copy of "Twisted Edge Snowboard," a Nintendo 64 game I'd picked up on a whim while doing my grocery shopping at the local mega-store. "We already have 'Snowboard Kids' at Dad's house. It's better. This one's OK, though." He started turning on equipment and flipping buttons. "We can play for awhile, anyway. C'mon, toad. I get to go first but you can play."
"You're welcome," I said.
"Michael says we can go snowboarding for real if it ever snows again," Sammy said, settling on the floor next to his brother, who had the Nintendo controller in one hand and the game manual in the other.
"But Dad says you won't let us go because you'll worry too much. He says he's tired of you getting to make all the decisions about how to raise us. He says you're turning us into little wimpy scaredy cats and the best reason he can think of to try for custody is to save us from your mommy coddling," Mark said.
"Molly-coddling," I said. "Surely your father didn't say that to you?"
Mark shrugged, studying his manual. I touched his hair and headed for the kitchen to try to catch up two days worth of unwashed dishes. Sammy followed me. "Don't worry, Mom," he said. "Mark doesn't mean to be mean. He's just scared we'll have to go live with Dad instead of you, so he's acting like he doesn't like you. But he does. I do, too."
I smiled at him. "You can be a therapist when you grow up, Sam Sam my lovin' man. Do you want to help me with the dishes?"
"No," he said. "I'm gonna play snowboard with Mark. I just thought you should know not to worry."
Ed got back into town in time to call me just before I fell asleep and tell me his retreat had been "enriching," "ennobling," and "extremely growthful," that he felt it had "moved him into a productive and empowering grief cycle," and that he was too exhausted to come see me or to hear how my weekend had been but would call later in the week. I sat in bed after we hung up, thinking about Harriet, Nona, and Miriam moving out of the neighborhood, the boys spending weeks or even months at a time at their father's house, and Ed, who used to come by on Sundays and cook me a week's worth of freezer meals when I was busy with school, now so caught up in his own "grief cycle" that he didn't have one minute to hear me say that everything I love is rushing away from me like galaxies in an ever-expanding universe.
Not that I'm feeling sorry for myself.
© Copyright 1997-2001 Su Penn. Design by David Dierauer.
