Second House from the Corner

 

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About the Author

Copyright Page

 

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In loving memory of

Geraldine Murray aka Mommom

Missing you.

 

To my parents,
Tyrone W. Murray and Nancy Murray,
for giving me what you have. Your love has always been enough.
All that I am is because of you.

 

PART 1

To love means to embrace and at the same time to withstand many endings, and many many beginnings—all in the same relationship.

—CLARISSA PINKOLA ESTÉS

 

ONE

The Witching Hour

That four-hour window between after-school pickup and bedtime? It's like walking a tightrope with groceries in both hands. The slightest hiccup will land any mother in a quagmire with her legs in the air. For me the whole afternoon was a fail. I locked myself out when I went to pick the kids up from school, but didn't notice the missing house keys until I pulled in to the driveway. The snacks had been demolished at the playground, so the hunger meltdown began on the drive to my husband's office for the spare key (a drive that usually takes seven minutes, but ended up being twenty round-trip because of traffic). Things got even shoddier once I discovered we were out of Kellogg's Corn Flakes. My children will not eat baked chicken unless I dip the pieces in buttermilk, roll them in corn flakes, and bake until crispy. The oven was preheated, the potatoes were boiling for the mash, and I was thirty-three minutes off schedule without the magic cereal that makes my chicken finger-licking good. No time to change the dinner plan. So I swap in seasoned bread crumbs and cross my toes that they won't notice.

“Mama, this doesn't taste right.” My son, Rory, frowns.

“Just eat it. There are children right down the street who are starving.”

“But it's disgusting,” whines Twyla.

How does a four-year-old know what disgusting is?

“Just eat.”

“I have to go pee pee and poo poo.”

“Stop smiling at me. Mommy, she's smiling.”

“Can we just have dessert?”

“Maaaaaaaa.”

“Mommmmm.”

“Momeeeeeeee.”

Like a song on repeat. Like it's the last word in the English dictionary. They call “Mommy” until my lips pucker, eyebrows knit. And it takes all my strength not to respond with that inside voice that nobody hears, that you wish would stay quiet, that tells the truth you don't want anyone to know. That
damn voice
is hollering.

Shut the fuck up!

At what point do I get to shout
What the fuck do you want from me?
I wouldn't drop an F-bomb in front of the mommy crew at the park, and I hate to see parents on the street cursing out their kids. But here in my kitchen with everything working against me, I would like to liberate myself just once and let the profanity rip.

It's the nipping at my nerves that gets me. The feasting on my flesh like starved sea urchins. Them, fighting like thieves for their individual piece of me. Me feeling like I have nothing left to give. Any mother who says that she has never felt like her whole life was being sucked out through her nostrils is a damn liar. I feel it every day.

Especially when I don't get at least five hours of shut-eye, like last night. Twyla (whom I call Two) walked her four-year-old self into my room every hour complaining about being scared.
Scared of what?
The curtain, the bed, the wall—she had an excuse for each visit. Never mind that she had to walk past her father to get to me. They never bother him. It's always Mommy. So I upped and downed all night while he slept like a hibernating black bear.

Breathe.

I hate when I feel like this. My chest rising and falling. Momentum of failure piled. Anxiety has swept through my belly and is curled against my organs like a balled fist. Just one happy pill would make it all better. But I've been on the happiness-comes-from-within kick for a few months, so no more pills. Instead I've started tapping.

Tapping out my emotions so I can get back to feeling right. It's that new technique where I say what my issue is and use my fingertips and hit my meridian points until I'm back to even. It usually takes about five minutes and several rounds before I feel centered and strong. My husband, Preston, calls it woo-woo, but he's not at home with three children all day. I am, and I have to use what I've got to carry me through. I turn my back to the kids at the kitchen table, take two fingers, and tap the side of my hand while whispering my setup statement.

“Even though I feel stressed out, anxious, and tired of being alone and responsible for my kids I love and accept myself.”

“Mommy, what are you doing?”

“Calming down.” I try whispering the statement again but Tywla is out of her seat.

“My stomach hurts.”

Rory puts his fork down. “I'm full.”

My fingers stop. I haven't made it through one minute, much less the five I need. I take a deep breath and usher everyone upstairs. Maybe Preston will surprise me and come home early.

The
damn voice
laughs.
When was the last time he did that? He never makes it home before their bedtime and I bet that's on purpose.

Rory moans. “That's my boat.”

“Dad gave it to me.”

“No, he didn't.”

Breathe. “Cut it out and get undressed.”

I run their bath and sneak in a quick tap. Repeating my setup statement, I move from my hand to my forehead, to the side of my eye, under my eye, under my lip, under my chin, full hand on chest, bra strap and top of the head. Fill my lungs with air and exhale.

Twyla and Rory are back. I read my body. Better.

“Can I bring this in the tub, pretty please?” Twyla clutches the mesh bag with their toys.

“Sure.”

They climb into the bathtub and play.

This should give me a few minutes alone with the baby.

“Guys, I'm going to change Liv into her pajamas. No water on the floor.”

“Can we have more bubbles?”

“No.”

“Awwww, man,” Rory replies, imitating Swiper the Fox. “You only gave us a little bit.”

I cut my eyes in the direction of my six-year-old and hold his gaze for a beat longer so that he knows I mean business.

The upstairs of our house is small, and it only takes three long strides to the girls' bedroom. Liv, the baby, squirms in my arms and I find solace burying my head in her neck. I could sit and smell this child all day. At ten months old, she still has that fresh-to-the-earth smell that forces me to slow my pace. It's hard to look at her without feeling deep sighs of relief. She is our miracle child.

When I was twenty weeks pregnant with Liv, a routine sonogram found something suspicious. I was sent to the Robert Woods Johnson Hospital in New Brunswick to see a pediatric cardiologist. There was a pinch in her heart that could hemorrhage. Her chances of being stillborn were high. When the doctor suggested that we terminate the pregnancy, I was bilious. By then I had already heard her heartbeat, felt her flutter and kick, loved her. Preston didn't even look my way when he simply told the batch of white coats that we would take our chances.

On our way home, the traffic on the Garden State Parkway held us hostage. I slobbered and blubbered against the passenger seat window, trudging through my past, knowing which karmic act brought this down on our family. My husband kept patting my hand, but when that didn't work, he pulled our ice-cream-truck-size SUV over to the side of the road and pressed the hazard lights.

“Foxy, look at me.” He is the only person who calls me Foxy, and even with hearing my personal pet name, I couldn't bring my eyes to his. Tilting my damp chin, he forced eye contact. “This is not your fault.”

But it is.

“You trust me?”

I shake my head, of course, because there really is no other response when your husband asks you that question.

“So the baby is healed. It's done, no more worries.” Preston clapped his hands, as if he had just entered a contract with God. “Now stop blaming yourself, you didn't do anything.”

As our vehicle crawled up the Parkway, he informed me that we'd name her Liv.

“Not short for anything. Just Liv.”

I knew what I had done to deserve this even though my husband did not. I wanted it to be all right. Needed something to cling to, so I agreed to everything that Preston offered because the only hope I had for a favorable outcome was him. I had burned my bridge with God a long time ago.

*   *   *

“Ooooh! I'm telling!” Rory shouts.

Liv is snapped up in her sleeper and on my hip.

“What's the matter?” I round the wall to the bathroom tub, and what I see makes my stomach sail over a steep cliff and capsize at my feet.

“What the…” I can't even finish my sentence because my mouth is filled with saliva. Twyla has my forty-five-dollar hair-nourishing cream clumped in her curls and pasted all over her body. When I move in closer, conditioner is floating in the water and smeared onto the sides of the tub. I pick up the bottle. It's empty.

“I told her to stop,” pipes Rory with globs in his hair and oozing down his back.

“Why didn't you call me?” My voice slams into Rory and he shrinks and shivers. “Two, how could you do this?”

Twyla just looks at me and then on cue she opens her mouth. Out comes that nerve-pinching wail that makes me want to drag my fingernails into her veins and make it stop.

I walk away. Damn the tapping. I need to get out of here. I recognize the rage coursing through my body, and it's all I can do. I deposit Liv into her crib and she starts crying immediately. I keep walking, knowing that everyone is safer with me heading in the opposite direction. I get as far as the kitchen, where I grab my cell phone off the countertop. I text Sam, my teenage sitter.

Can you come over now for a few hours?

As I lean against the countertop waiting for her text back, the evidence of my unsuccessful dinner is on the table, chairs, and floor.