Not
even the fresh scent of ink pressed into paper could revive the dead.
That’s
me, a zombie just going through the motions of life without really feeling
anything. Everything I do – from the endless sinks of rainbow-colored plates
covered in sticky goo and breaded bits of dino-shaped chicken, to the heaps of
laundry splattered with mysterious stains – I do because I have to, even though
it consumes every moment of every day.
I
pass the coffee counter, carefully navigating the double-wide stroller around
the towering piles of books stacked waist-high in the center aisle, ignoring
the twinge of jealousy for the woman sitting alone in a quiet corner.
Gone
are the days when I had time to do anything I wanted. I used to go to concerts.
I used to golf. I used to write… oh, how I loved to write. I’d spend hours
immersed in one fictional world or another, never remembering that a real world
existed beyond my four office walls. I could go days without food – or a shower
if I had to – if that’s what it took to get my burning thoughts on paper.
But
now…now my life is different. Now my life is not my own.
The
endless rows of hardbound books, the soft rustle of pages being turned, the
mammoth bookstore attached to the mall tries to awaken my senses as a familiar title
glares at me from the overstocked shelf: WRITING THE BREAKTHROUGH NOVEL. There
were a dozen other books just like it at home in my dusty, forgotten writer’s
den.
How
long had it been, a year, maybe two? Hard to remember.
Maybe
I don’t want to.
My
fingers twitch as if the involuntary memories of pounding words into a keyboard
have become too much for them ignore.
It’s
not that I don’t want to write, or that I don’t have anything to say, it’s that
I’m broken. Broken by circumstance. Broken by conscience. Broken…from the
inside out.
Not
that I complain. Oh, no! When I got the phone call – the one that said my son
was in jail and his girlfriend of three years was being evicted with my
grandchildren – I took those babies without question and I’ve loved them and
cared for them as though they were born to me. I had voluntarily given up the
only true passion I’d ever had out of duty and love.
Love. Ha.
Love
is just another four letter word that convinces people to do stupid things, no
matter how valiant their intentions might be. My friends – and even strangers
who hear my story – call me a saint. That’s ridiculous. My husband and I did
what anyone would do. We adopted our grandchildren to save them from a life
doomed to poverty, abuse and neglect.
I
had to do it. I couldn’t have lived with myself otherwise. Would I change it if I could? I wonder.
I
don’t know.
“Nonnie,
Nonnie I want this one. Will you read this one…please?” my sweet Emma Lu sings,
as her pink Mary-Janes dance on the spot.
My
granddaughter turned daughter is beautiful, and I’m not just saying that
because that’s what everyone says. She’s truly as pretty as a porcelain doll.
Her biological mother is Filipino and my son is of European-Jewish descent,
together they made the prettiest children. Her skin is like tawny silk, her dark
eyes are framed by thick, dark lashes and her lips are watermelon red. But it’s
her electric smile and outgoing personality that draws anyone within a
fifty-foot radius to her.
“Me
too! Me too! This-s one too! Pretty pleeease?” Mason squirms in his stroller,
itching to be free and touch everything his round eyes can see.
The
boy, a cookie-cutter image of my granddaughter, is a year younger and not bad
for a terrible two. He wants to do everything his sister does. He takes (or at
least tries to) every toy she’s interested in and repeats everything she says by
adding a “too” at the end. It’s quite cute.
I
look at him now, dressed in his favorite button-down – the one he says is like
Poppie’s – trying desperately to reach everything with his chubby little
fingers. He’s so much like my son, soft curly hair that wings out over his ears,
only a tiny sparkle of mischief in his eyes, but enough that I keep a close eye
on him.
“You
guys want me to read to you? That’s crazy,” I tease.
“No,
we do, we do,” Emma squeals, enjoying the game.
“Me
do, too, Nonnie,” Mason adds.
Tiny
threads of joy stitch the corners of my broken heart together as they peer up
at me, so eager to hear a story that some author slaved over for countless
days, months, years, making sure each word choice was just right.
They
both love books.
Pangs
of grief and nostalgia needle their way into my chest as memories of being in
bookstores with my older children flood over me.
Books
were the one thing I never denied them – no matter how broke we were – if they
wanted a book, I found a way to get it [legally] for them. I was so sure I was
being a good parent. Four of my five children grew up to be wonderfully
responsible adults.
Remorse
floods my heart with an ocean of helplessness. My son…he used to be anyway…is
lost to me, maybe forever.
Where’d I go wrong?
I question, digging my nails into the meaty flesh on my palm.
Emma
waves the books under my face, desperate for me to acknowledge her as my
thoughts drift, watching the enchantment sparkle in her eyes. My husband and I
are quite a bit more established than we were our first time raising a family,
it would be easy to go crazy and let these two have everything they want.
But
I don’t.
I
don’t want to ruin them. I want them to understand the value of imagination and
what it can make a person create. Imagination is the key to a person’s soul,
whether through art or invention, or just to let themselves go in whatever
passion grabs them. But being free to conjure something from nothing is an
experience I want them to have.
I reach down, considering Emma’s choice of
in-store narrative. The jacket is covered in beautifully-illustrated pirates,
ships and fish.
“Ooh,
what did you find? An adventure book?” I squat to her level, squeezing her
shoulders and kissing her soft, squishy cheek. She smells of gumdrops.
“Me
too! Me too!” wails Mason.
“Shhh,
inside voice,” I remind him. “You want to hear the story too?”
“Uh
huh. Me too. Me too.” His little fingers try to undo his safety harness.
“Okay,
hang on there, Houdini.”
The
moment he’s free, he runs through the kid-corner shouting, “Wook! Wook!”
“Shhh,
I see honey, but remember we use inside voices,” I remind him for the
two-hundredth time that day. “Here, come sit and I’ll read.”
Like
everything else in my life, this outing feels redundant. Not only do I repeat
myself a thousand times a day, but I have already done the raising-a-family gig.
I’ve changed the gag-inducing diapers and survived potty-training a half-dozen
times. I’ve taught kids how to read and to remember to use their manners. I’ve
already paid my dues and earned my empty-nest freedom.
Still,
as I read the story, déjà vu creeps in and I remember that I’ve already had the
tiny house with the huge mortgage. I’ve sat in the bleachers and cheered. I’ve
dared gather laundry out of our teenaged sons’ rooms. I’m middle-aged, not
twenty-something, I don’t have the energy to do this…again.
Is this punishment for
surviving five children? I shut off my new mini-van (Lord
help me, I can’t believe I drive a mini-van), open the automatic doors and
release one sleeping child from his car seat.
I
suppose at first I thought this was some type of karmic punishment. I thought
somewhere in my past – maybe even a past life – I’d wronged someone and this
was my penalty, to be an eternal mother. I did the math. By the time my now
youngest child graduates from high school I will have raised children for fifty
years. It didn’t matter that I’d already sacrificed my youth to my children,
now I have to surrender the last few youthful years I have left on this earth.
I
could look at it like that I suppose.
But
something miraculous happens when children are sleeping. The pain and trials of
parenthood instantly disappear and when the babies wake anew, so too do I.
Their precious faces shining up at me so eagerly, hanging on every word I’m
about to read again, only this time…
…
I enjoy it.
As
I open the book and begin to read the magic from within, I’m transported back
to a time when being a mother was all I ever wanted. A time when the highlight
of my day was watching the joy on my family’s faces as they devoured my
lasagna, back to a time when vacuuming the closets was the most important thing
I’d do that day and I remember…
I
remember what made me want to write in the first place.
I
wanted to write for the young and the young-at-heart. I wanted to write for all
of the children I can’t make blueberry pancakes for before they catch the bus.
I wanted to write to touch the lives of those who don’t have someone in their
corner. I wanted to write because I know how they feel, alone and afraid.
That
was the childhood I’d had. That was the childhood I’d escaped from by way of enchanted
literary portals.
But
if why I write is for other people, for children who find themselves alone,
then shouldn’t I find even more joy in giving that happiness to these children
in person?
The
answer is yes.
With
elation and fervor I read Michael Recycle
and Bootleg Peg again, this time with all of the voices I could dream up, and
I stacked that book back in the bookshelf with conviction. From that point on,
whenever I’m wondering what the heck I’m doing here, I go find that book and
cuddle my babies close to me and I read (I’ve now mastered the fishy-pirate
voices).
“Nonnie?”
Emma asks one night before bed, her expression thoughtful and dreamy.
“Hmmm?”
I sigh, closing our much loved book once again.
“Thanks
for loving me. You’re my favorite,” she sings, squeezing my arm.
“And
you’re mine.” I pull her precious little head to my face, planting a kiss in
her grape-scented hair.
With
both babes huddled against me, I have no doubt this is where I belong. No
matter how many stories blaze inside me, dying to be set free, this is the
story that must first be told.
