Sand in My Eyes (37 page)

“Well, call up to me in the window and I can be down in a flash.”

I couldn’t imagine anyone going along, running errands with me, expecting adult conversation as my children hung from the sides of the cart like talented monkeys. We were a mess in the store, but had a system—a-tear-open-a-bag-of-lollipops system—that worked well for me as long as I got big enough lollipops, the kind that take at least one hundred licks to reach the center. Fedelina would only stop me en route to the lollipop section, questioning the sugar mothers give to their children these days, or judge me for the frozen, packaged, and processed dinners I was tossing into my cart.

“The only place I’ve got to go to right now,” I told her, “is inside, to get these sandy kids into the tub.”

“Enjoy it, Anna,” she said through her screen as I reached the top of my stairs. “It’s nice to be needed. Trust me! It’s rather sad when you’re not needed anymore.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

I STARTED THE BATHWATER
and got the children in, feeling guilty for holding a grudge, and for not having gone next door all those weeks to find out where my neighbor had been, to see how she had been doing. But my days had been busy with kids, my mind preoccupied with the story I was writing. Having kids and writing a story does that to a person, the composition takes over a good part of one’s mind, even when not with the kids or sitting at the computer, writing.

Some friendships are like annuals that last no more than a season, but sure put on a good show. And there are the perennials, which are great, but you have to resign yourself to certain times of the year when they will be dormant
.

I scribbled a few thoughts down on scratch paper, then dried the children off and got them into their pajamas. It was then that I considered adding another petal to my life—one called “others” with which I care for the lonely, or make time again to chat with rose enthusiasts living next door. But with three children all crying at once and relying on me for their every whim, reality was not in favor of me adding more priorities to my life.

Down on my hands and knees, I scrubbed the floor of the laundry room, feeling bad for my neighbor’s loneliness but not knowing how to fix
it, or my marriage. When Timothy walked in, I don’t know why I found it so easy to be mean to him.

“Why don’t we get the kids to bed, and you and I have some time together,” he said over the noisy dryer, which was on the brink of breaking again.

“Can’t,” I said. “I’ve got cleaning to do.”

“You always say that. Is your cleaning more important than us?”

“Lower your voice,” I scolded as I got up from the floor and slammed the window shut. “Our neighbor is going to hear you bickering with me.”

“I’m not talking loud at all.”

“Then talk in a more laid-back tone,” I said, looking out toward her house, trying to make out whether or not she was in her window.

“You should have married a perfect man, Anna. That’s what you want.”

“No, I want a bigger house. That’s what I really want.”

“A bigger house? You loved this house. You’re the one who insisted we rent it.”

“Well, it’s closing in on me now. The smallness of this house is driving me crazy. It’s impossible to clean.”

“I’d think a bigger house would be harder to clean.”

“Didn’t your mother teach you how to lower your voice?” I asked as I went to the dryer and opened its door, so the house would stop shaking. I stood there in the stillness, making a mental note to teach my sons how to lower their voices, wash their clothes, cook a nice dinner, clean the whole house, and bring flowers home for their women. If I didn’t teach them all of that, one day my daughters-in-law would look at me with both shame and curiosity as to why I didn’t teach their husbands these things when they were boys and still trainable, and how I let them get to manhood like this.

“I’m sick and tired of that dryer,” I said as I emerged from the laundry room, bustling from wall to wall of our house, adjusting all the lopsided pictures the rumbling, tumbling dryer caused to hang crookedly.

“Can you imagine what a hurricane would do to this place?” Timothy found it amusing to ask.

“Our house would be the first to fall,” I said.
And down would come baby, bough, cradle and all
.

“But on the bright side,” Timothy added, “the dryer puts Marjorie to sleep and the rosarian next door might think we’re up to no good.”

I could feel my mouth open as wide as a mega-mouth shark’s. “Oh, hush,” I said.

“Okay, then tell me this,” he said, his voice a whisper. “How long has it been since you’ve held my hand, rubbed my back, since you’ve touched me in any way, or asked me about my day? It’s always about the kids. Either the kids, or you—you and your turmoil, your hardships.”

I could stand it no longer. I ran into the kitchen and pulled the book with all the letters from Cora from the cabinet, then I grabbed a flashlight and hurried out the front door of our shoebox of a home, letting the screen door slam behind me. I kicked an enormous conch shell good and hard, sending it off the porch, before I sat down on the wooden steps to read another letter from Cora.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Dear Fedelina
,

When you were a child, you would drape a blanket over our kitchen table and sit beneath it, making believe that it was a castle. On summer days I’d fill a pot with water and watch you drop your dolls in. You wanted to give them a swimming pool. It was only pretend, but this is the sort of play that has little girls imagining, fantasizing about the day they might become mothers themselves and live in a mansion. But the old lady who lived in a shoe probably never dreamt of living in a shoe, or of having so many kids she didn’t know what to do. And she never dreamt of growing old. But she did
.

Life doesn’t always go the way we plan, and we either become resentful victims of our lives or we shift the way we view things in order to see the good. I’ve chosen the latter and no longer care so much about the house that I live in, but rather in what I see when I look out my window. Are there trees filled with red-bellied woodpeckers and nests full of ospreys
?
And when I leave through my front door, where does it lead
?
Should I go for a stroll, will I find nearby hideaways—nature’s kingdoms
?

A woman reaches a certain point in life, Fedelina, when she no longer cares about living in a castle, or how many glass slippers she owns. At least, I don’t. My feet are bad and I hardly wear shoes. What I care about now is, how many prayers do I have in my soul, ideas in my mind, and memories in my heart
?
And, have I loved
?
Have I loved the Lord, my God, with all my heart, soul, and mind, and have I loved another person abundantly and to the extreme
?
Whether they loved me back or not, I do not care. But did I love extravagantly—-for what a great sport it is—to love extravagantly in the sense of the action verb
.

It’s not how many rich people I have as my friends, or how much money I have in the bank, but do I know the words of Jesus, have I read the great literary masterpieces of our time, are the melodies of Mozart waltzing through my mind
?
Filling ourselves this way is important and goes into the makeup of a woman. When you’re feeling underdressed and poor in worldly ways, you’ve got to ask yourself what you’re made of. What are little girls who turn into women made of
?
Your house may be a dive, darling, but your soul is a mansion. When you’re feeling down and out, step outside your physical house and take a walk! I do this all the time, and the things I’ve discovered—well, I’ll tell you about them soon
.

I know what you’re thinking—it’s hard for a mother to go for a walk all by herself. But a mother’s hug is like a flowering shrub that perfumes a room with a single branch. In other words, even as you’re out taking a walk, your children will still feel your presence. And a mother’s fragrance can be noticed six feet away. It’s why a mother is able without guilt to put a little space between her and her children. But a rose is only as good as its last watering. It doesn’t matter that it rained a month ago, or that a mother may have taken a half hour to herself a week ago. The roses need more rain now, and you mothers are only as good as your last break
.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

I DIDN’T FINISH THE
rest of the letter, but closed the book and thought about all that was driving me crazy. The way the walls of the house were closing in, and how there wasn’t a corner or closet I could go where it was quiet, where I might hide—sit by myself without distraction, without mess or conflict or cleaning that had to be done. Even at night, in my own bed, my kids are kicking and strangling me. I’m never alone, and then he comes home and expects me to dote over him when what I really want is time to myself—which he gets lots of on the plane, in the car, and at the hotel. Then again, I wasn’t sure how alone he was at those hotels, so I switched instead to thinking of my week alone, and how it did me no lasting good, because here I was, finding myself exhausted again. Maybe Cora was right in what I just read, that a mother is only as good as her last watering, her last break.

Maybe, had I done some of those things the other mothers did—joined that book club with the group of ladies once a month, or taken the time to read a book alone in my room at night, or taken off on that inspirational retreat, taken more long baths, made time for weekly pedicures, pampered myself at the spa every once in a while, or taken off for a simple hour or two, to where? I don’t know,
ride a cockhorse to Banbury Cross, or London Town
—would I still have broken down like I did? And would I still be feeling as I was now, like a piece of seaweed, washed ashore and shriveled up?

“I don’t think it’s who I’m meant to be,” I said out loud as I turned the flashlight off and closed the book with the letters from Cora. “That miserable, motherly, martyr who does nothing for the care and well-being of herself—the woman who goes about bemoaning her life.”

It was then that I looked out at the trees and spotted a pair of eyes through the branches of a gumbo-limbo tree. They became still, as did mine, and I stood there a couple of seconds, holding my breath, hardly moving. It was Fedelina. She was lonely, and I was scathed, and any time two negatives are gathered together there is great company. I almost said, “Hi” and asked her how she was doing, but I didn’t. I almost went inside to console Marjorie, who I could hear crying, but I didn’t do that either. I got up from where I was sitting and, with the book clutched tightly in my hands, I jogged down my steps and stood in the sandy road, staring at my lit-up house on stilts. It was small and people driving by might mistake it for a birdhouse, but it was glowing with charm, and falling asleep inside were the world’s three greatest children. I realized there, standing in the road in front of my house, that every so often a woman needs to step away from her life to see from afar how beautiful it is.