17 Berry
Berry
“Stella, you’ve got to stop this.” I admonish my young assistant for bringing me an iced latte even as I reach out for it
and take a long, appreciative sip. “I’m sure you have more important things to do than bring me coffee every morning.”
“I was stopping for an egg and cheese anyway, so what’s the difference?” She stands across from me in a lavender tunic dress
she likes because purple is supposed to bring out the green in her eyes. Those eyes drop down to my desk as she notices the
mess I’ve made. Strewn across the surface are materials from multiple hands-on learning kits, lots of brightly colored wires,
control boards, and key caps.
“I’ve been evaluating these Arduino and littleBits sets to figure out which units make the most sense for our kids,” I explain.
“And I find your generosity distracting.”
“Sue me if I like working for you and want to do nice things for you,” she says. “Can’t you just deal with it?” She reminds
me so much of myself at her age. A scrappy kid from a modest upbringing who wants to work hard and make her way in an academic
setting. I’m lucky to have her around.
I look back down at the plastic pieces scattered on the desktop.
I’m trying to prepare us for more project-based learning at school, incorporating added time in the makerspace.
It’s just one of the many changes that would benefit the kids while also proving to the board that I’m the best candidate for principal.
It’s also something Neil Rumson left out of his grand master curriculum plan.
“I’ve got too much shit to do to worry about whether I’m taking advantage of your kindness, so could you just knock it off?”
I wave a hand, shooing her away as I take another sip.
Instead of leaving, she gives me an irreverent smile. “It’s okay to let people spoil you sometimes. You don’t get to have
a monopoly on that.” She’s just playing, but her comment pokes a tender place and brings Phil right back to mind.
It’s like I’ve been living with Jekyll and Hyde. One minute he’s asking if I need a foot rub, and the next he’s making snide
remarks or stalking out of the room. We used to take care of each other, and now he wants nothing from me.
As if he can sense me thinking of him, a text pings on my phone.
Leo didn’t want to go to swimming today, so I dropped him at the Y on my way to work.
I respond immediately. Why didn’t he want to go?
I did notice Leo acting a little subdued last night. I thought he was still angry with me for going through his things, but
as I watch the three little dots flicker on my phone, I realize Leo’s moodiness also coincides with the timing of the last
swim lesson.
Before Phil responds, I ask, Did he say what happened? Did someone upset him? Or something sensory? Maybe the swimming is harder than Leo expected and he isn’t progressing how he’d hoped. Really, there could be so many reasons why this wasn’t a good idea after all.
Can you please land the damn helicopter and stop obsessing? All he said was he didn’t want to go today. That’s all I know.
Let the kid be.
Helicopter! How dare he?! I guess we’re dealing with Mr. Hyde today.
I can think of plenty of things worse than caring too much. As supportive as Phil has been or was over the years, when it really came down to it, I was the one who was there, the one who was present, the one who had to
carry the emotional weight of it all, over and over. It was a mantle I never asked for, and I won’t be shamed for it now.
His recent behavior is making it all the clearer that it was me, always me, who was there. Where was my “devoted” husband
all those times when Leo was a toddler, struggling so much with day care that one of us had to stay home instead? Where was
he during elementary school on the days Leo had to be picked up early because he was disrupting class or upsetting other children?
Who drove our son to all his speech therapy classes, his animal therapy classes? Who found him a specialized bar mitzvah tutor
and drove him three towns over every week for all those months, while also getting him to his psychological therapy, his medical
appointments, and that godforsaken orthodontist where he used to scream bloody murder? And now, now that Leo has become so
much more capable, calmer, and easier to talk to, potentially even ready to prepare for independent living in the not-too-distant
future, suddenly I’m supposed to stop giving a shit? It’s precisely because of all the effort I’ve put in over the years that
he’s doing so well now.
But instead of hearing “Thank you, Berry,” I’m getting called names, being told I’m worried Leo won’t need me. Worrying about that? As if I don’t want that for Leo! Leo’s independence is my dream in life!
Phil has never acknowledged the unequal load we’ve had ever since Leo was a young child. The hours, the effort, the orchestrating.
I guess he was just too busy all those years, basking in the accolades dads get for doing one-eighth of what a mom does.
“Oh, isn’t Phil wonderful? So helpful!” they’d say because he came with me to a school meeting now and then. Now that shit is actually getting real and it’s time
for Leo to really grow up, there’s suddenly no more “helpful Phil.” Instead he’s just an obstacle, standing in my way.
Fuck that.
I call Leo instead.
“Hey, hon,” I say when he picks up, and amazingly, my voice sounds calm. “Dad told me you didn’t want to go to swimming today.
How come?”
“I don’t like swimming anymore.”
I wait for him to say more, like he usually does when he’s upset, but he stays quiet.
“Did something happen that upset you?”
He’s still silent on the other end of the line.
“Leo?” I prompt. “Remember sometimes it helps to talk about it.”
“McKenna yelled at me.”
“She yelled at you?” I feel my blood pressure rising. “Why would she do something like that? What reason could she possibly
have to yell at you?”
“It was my fault,” he says. “I blew my whistle. I blew my whistle a lot of times. I blew my whistle loud. I was helping. But then Rohan got upset, and Elias, and there was a lot of yelling, too much yelling, and I kept blowing my whistle.”
As I listen to Leo, I can see the scene unfolding in my mind’s eye. I imagine the utter chaos that might have taken place
at the pool yesterday.
“Do you think maybe it’s a stretch to say she yelled at you?” I ask. “Like, maybe she was yelling because it was loud, and
she wanted to make sure you heard her? Maybe she wasn’t exactly yelling at you so much as yelling to you?”
“I don’t want to do swimming anymore. Dad took me to the Y so I can do extra hours in the AV room today instead. I don’t like
swimming anymore. McKenna got mad.”
“Sweetie, I really don’t think she was mad. I bet she was just overwhelmed. You know how sometimes you get overwhelmed, right?
And then you act in a way you might otherwise not have acted. Do you think maybe you could go see McKenna one more time before
you decide you’re finished with the swim class?”
“I don’t want to.”
This isn’t the first time Leo has sworn off an activity based on one bad experience. Like the time he got his shoelace caught
in an escalator when he was eight. I yanked the lace out of the crevice right away, and no harm was done, but Leo has refused
to go on another escalator ever since. It’s been stairs, elevator, or bust.
But he’s been so happy with the swimming and his new responsibilities with the other kids.
“Could I speak to her then? Would that be okay with you?”
“Okay.”
I sit up straighter at his words.
“Did you just say okay?” I ask, surprised by his answer.
“Yes.”
“Oh. Well, okay then.” I certainly don’t want to make him second-guess himself now that he’s agreed. “I’ll do that. In the
meantime, it’s fine for you to just do your AV work. We know McKenna must be busy teaching right now, so I’ll call her later
today.”
“Okay.”
“Okay. Then we can hang up now.”
“Okay,” he says, and the line goes dead.
Clearly, we still have more work to do on phone etiquette, but we’re getting there.
Meanwhile, I scroll through my contacts until I find McKenna’s name.
I start typing out a text to her, but then I change my mind. I haven’t met her yet, but since both my boys seem quite taken
with her, I imagine she must be something special. I decide to use time I don’t have to stop by Hollyhock in person. I see
a picture in my head of myself climbing back into a helicopter, putting on those big headphones, and trying to get us back
on course. If Phil doesn’t like it, well, maybe we can find him an ejector seat.