Chapter 3
“Toby!” A flustered woman balances a tearful baby on her hip while whispering to her other child at the loudest publicly appropriate volume. I fear little Toby’s life could be shortened today if he doesn’t obey her. She apologizes to me as she tries to take his hand.
“It’s okay. He’s adorable.” I crouch down, disregarding my knees’ protest. “How old are you, buddy?”
Three chubby fingers thrust into my face.
“Wow. Three. That’s awesome. Toby, my name is Meredith. It’s nice to meet you.” I ignore the memory flash of another three-year-old boy I once knew and stand to face his mom. “Can I help you with anything?”
The woman shifts the child squirming in her arms and glances at me. Moisture gathers in her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Meltdowns are always better with privacy, and if the tear that just slid down her face is any indication, she’s about to have one.
I decide to guide us in the direction of a bench around the corner.
Once seated, I hand Toby a brochure for Jeep tours in Colorado Springs, hoping this occupies him for more than ninety seconds.
“Jeep!” He grabs the glossy pages.
“I’m trying to get to the movie room, and Toby keeps running away, and Layla’s diaper just blew out, and now I need to change clothes but I’m late, and I can tell we’re disturbing the peace, and I keep trying to smile at everyone to make it okay, but we’re getting some rude stares, and I know that all sounds small, but I’m just so overwhelmed.
” The woman’s lips quiver, and tears spill onto her cheeks.
In response to her stress, I lock into some kind of automatic-pilot mommy mode. One I haven’t experienced in four years. “I’m Meredith. How can I help?” I point to the diaper bag on her shoulder.
She drops to her knees, and I follow suit and start searching to find what we need. I pull a changing pad out and lay it down for her to place the baby on.
“I’m Sally. This is Toby and Layla.” Even through her blubbering, this woman is stunning. Long brown hair tied back in a loose ponytail, displaying a pert nose and wide, long-lashed, indigo eyes.
“How old is Layla?”
“She’s almost one.”
The painful flashback to a different sweet baby shoots right through my gut, and I pause to take in a breath. I push past, though, because this mama needs help.
“Arms up, sweetie.” As she tugs the soiled dress over Layla’s head, I force a smile.
“Well, they’re beautiful children,” I say.
After Sally finagles Layla onto the changing pad and removes her diaper, I’m relieved to see it’s only a wet blowout. Sally draws her head up and catches my eyes. “Aren’t you going to add, ‘and a handful’? People seem to make that comment when my kids act up.”
“I wasn’t thinking about your children.” I offer a small smile. “I was thinking about how hard it is to be a mom of little ones.”
“I’m a mess.” She murmurs the confession on a sigh. Her tears slow, and she takes the diaper I hold out for her, slips it under Layla, and secures the tabs.
“Did you feed your kids today?” I ask.
Sally blinks.
I hold up a clean, ruffled replacement romper I found in the diaper bag. “They’re obviously clothed in appropriate attire. So you dress them too.”
She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.
“That’s all that’s required of you,” I say, rolling up the wet diaper into a ball. “Feed them, clothe them, keep them safe. Some days, accomplishing those three things is all you can do. And, Sally, that just has to be okay. You’re doing an excellent job.”
Slumping over, she shakes her head in her hands. “We met two minutes ago. You don’t know that.”
“Now, Miss Layla, I think you’re all set to go.” While she holds my hands, her chunky feet find the floor in an effort to stand. Layla gives me the sweetest two-tooth smile, wobbles, and falls on her baby bottom with glee.
Toby continues to rip the Jeep brochure apart as if his life depends on it, his little-boy brow furrowed in concentration.
“Toby and Layla can’t tell you this right now,” I say, “but they’re so glad you’re their mommy.”
“Being a mom is an impossible job. It feels like any mistake will send my kids straight to therapy.” Using the back of her hand, Sally brushes a lock of hair out of her eyes. “Do you have kids of your own?”
It’s an innocent question. A natural one, really, from what’s just unfolded. But I can’t. It will change everything. “Oh, let’s focus on yours. I’m on vacation.”
Sally shifts her attention to the wet area covering a fourth of her belted, pale-green sweater dress, then looks to me, a little panic-stricken.
“We were going to the hotel movie theater. My husband, Spencer, is here on business and the company organized several family activities, but now I’m covered in tinkle. ”
“Here.” I remove and offer my pashmina. “Use this to cover the spot. Then head to the bathroom just outside the theater. The stalls are stocked with body spray. No one will have a clue.”
She looks at me, awe filling her eyes. “Are you a superhero?”
I blink. Superhero? A lump forms in my throat as something dawns on me.
I’ve been useful to someone.
The realization feels more than sweet. It’s thick with meaning.
Yessssss.
I thought my purpose, my worth in this life, had been swept away with my cataclysmic loss. Who am I if I’m not a wife or a mother? But helping Sally chisels away at the falsehood.
After draping the pashmina over her shoulders, Sally scoops up Layla and grabs Toby’s hand.
I take her in from head to toe. My black scarf coordinates with her dark knee-high leather boots as if the entire ensemble came from her closet. “You look perfect.”
She flashes a smile at me as I pass her the diaper bag. “We’ll be done around five. Can I treat you to dinner for helping me? We can meet in the mezzanine.”
Sharing a meal with a new friend. Who has young children. The thought doesn’t hurt nearly as much as it usually does.
In fact, the thought feels warm, like it could be safe for the first time in a long while.
Shut up. Shut up. Shut. Up.
The torturous, beeping alarm badgers me out of a deep sleep. My hand blindly slaps the side table until I annihilate my target. Lifting up my sleep mask, I lean over the bed and peer down at the injured clock on the floor.
“Ugh.” I roll to my back and stare at the ceiling. Details from the day trickle through my memory. House shopping with Prissy. An unfortunate mention of Harlan Holcombe. Sally, Toby, Layla, and the blowout. A monster nap.
I blink. Sally. I’m supposed to meet Sally and her kids for dinner.
Disoriented, I fumble around until I sit on the side of the bed, hotel phone in hand, and stab the operator button.
The voice greeting me is too loud for my not-quite-awake ears. “Good afternoon, Ms. Harper, how can I assist you today?”
Still in a post-nap fog, I hear unplanned words tumble from my mouth. “I need to report a homicide.”
The voice clears its throat. “Excuse me?”
“I murdered my clock while trying to turn off the alarm.” A yawn interrupts my confession. “I’m so sorry—please charge it to my room.”
Stifled laughter comes through the phone. “That won’t be necessary, Ms. Harper. However, I will contact housekeeping and have a replacement sent to you right away.”
I wind the cord around my forefinger. “Don’t enable my poor behavior choices, otherwise I’ll never learn.”
“My pleasure, Ms. Harper. Can I help you with anything else?”
Once the blood in my finger is cut off, I unwind the cord the opposite direction. “No, but I can’t guarantee the safety of the other small appliances in the room.”
“We’ll take it one incident at a time, Ms. Harper. Thank you for making me smile.”
He thinks I’m kidding.
I rejoin the phone to its cradle and hang my head in my hands. The crankiest of moods accompanies me as I rouse from my dead-to-the-world nap. What is wrong with me?
This isn’t hard, Meredith. You’re triggered.
Long, deliberate breaths start to ground me.
Grief is stealthy.
I don’t choose when it rears its ugly head. My only options are in my response.
When I left Sally and the kids, I floated back to my room on a cloud of anticipation and hope.
Allowing myself to dust off the cobwebs of my mommy skills somehow liberated me.
I felt grateful for the opportunity to jump outside of myself and encourage someone else.
I’d really leaned into the situation. A sense of pride had washed over me, and my grief didn’t immediately steal it away.
But the reminder of my personal catastrophe settled over me like a wet blanket while I slept.
Instead of a suffocating ache, I woke up to a seething spirit.
The fatigue, moodiness, and hungover feelings are all familiar foes.
They know they aren’t welcome. And they know I’ll take time to wait them out.
Deep, long, deliberate breaths.
The question is, will I risk being around Sally and her children again, knowing there could be consequences like this episode of emotion?
Over the last four years, I’ve lived life as if I’m playing a game of dodgeball. My reality is so painful, I take care to hide in the corner, avoiding the different spheres of loss.
At first everyone else protected me. Birthday parties, weddings, and baby showers passed without invitations in my mailbox. At some point they resumed, but it became more comfortable for me to ignore them, and I disappeared right off the social grid.
That’s just it. The corner is safe.
I benched myself from my own life.
And for the first time in four years, I’m curious. I want to come out and play. I do. Even if it hurts.
The question I was too scared to ask Prissy runs through my head like a news ticker across the bottom of a television screen.
Is it possible there’s still something left for me in this life?
Stretching my arms, I stand on my tiptoes as I inhale once more. I fold my body over, my hands touch my feet, and I exhale. Back curled, I turn my head and talk to the deceased clock on the floor. “Let’s suit up.”