Chapter 7
Seven
supercilious (adj.): coolly and patronizingly haughty
Later in the day, a breeze tousles my hair as I wait by the school flagpole for Chase.
As a cost-cutting measure, the Messenger recently reduced our hours on Wednesdays.
Sure, my paycheck took a hit, but there are plus sides.
Smaller budget for after-school care. Bigger portion of the day spent with my son.
Parents are clustered like grapes into their usual bunches, chatting.
I stand apart. Maybe because I only get to do this once a week and am rarely free to chaperone field trips, I’ve never found an entry point into any of these social spheres.
Which is fine, I think, flicking a glance over to the threesome of Becca Burns and the two Jennifers, with their crop tops and fashionably baggy sweats that somehow miraculously don’t make them look like slobs.
I guess you could say I’m surface-level friends with Becca’s posse.
Their kids have attended school with Chase since pre-K, so we always exchange nice-to-see-yous.
But even grownups have something akin to a cool kids’ table.
Wispy locks of Becca’s cornsilk bob surf the breeze, catching sunlight.
She’s one of those high-functioning women who makes me feel like a drooling idiot.
Like I’ve got two cement blocks for feet.
Never mind that she’s also got perfectly flat abs, three kids whose names all begin with b and show up on every honor roll, and some kind of successful business that she operates with her husband—one has to admire the way she’s killing it as PTO president.
“Lucy!” Out of the crowd, Nina’s daughter, Paige, breaks free and darts my way.
Her loaded down electric-pink backpack flops from one shoulder blade to the other.
That’s got to be painful. Waist-length ebony waves explode from Paige’s scrunchie in all directions.
“Want to see my art folder?” she says breathlessly.
“Of course, honey!” Paige is practically family. It was a godsend, really, the way she and Chase connected several years back on the day her family moved in downstairs during the unfolding of a horrific family tragedy. Two square-peg children in a world of round holes, destined for friendship.
Paige produces a manila folder from her backpack and opens it.
“These are amazing,” I say. “They’re the horses at the ranch?”
“Well, not this one. She’s Fancy Nancie. My BFH.”
“Your . . . ?”
“My best friend horse,” Paige says, as if this is a no-duh. To be fair, she does talk about this horse often.
“Wow. Keep going, girl. You’ve got a talent for this.”
Chase’s class is next to be released. Paige and I watch for the moment he bursts into view.
Finally, he bisects the pine cone–dotted lawn with that long, forward-leaning gait of his, and I feel my heart leaning right back.
But then, quite suddenly, he stops. Something in the grass has caught my son’s eye.
There’s no end to the things that capture the interest of a budding naturalist like Chase.
Beetles, badgers, feathers, fungi. But always and especially trees.
“Oh nooo,” Paige whines. “If he whips out his magnifying glass, we’ll be here all day, and I’m hungry.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” I say. Down on all fours now, Chase moves his face close to the ground. What can I do but smile?
And yet, we’re not Chase’s only audience.
The hot-moms trio has ceased chatting to openly stare.
Becca Burns raises her oversized sunglasses to study my naturally curious son as if he’s the curiosity of nature.
My chest squeezes. Oh, son. After a moment, the group resumes their conversation, curling back in on themselves like a sow bug.
Except for Jennifer Number Two, Jen Moncado. She continues to side-eye Chase. When she catches me watching, she doesn’t turn away. In fact, for the briefest second, Jen holds my gaze. It happens so fast, I’m not sure what I read there. Pity? Sadness?
I offer a tiny, dorky wave.
Once upon a time, this kind of situation made me hurt for Chase.
But these days my heart breaks a whole lot less for my son than for those like Becca and her clique.
Maybe I’ll never be welcomed into their hot yoga for mommies class or whatever it is they do together, but the Lord has invited me to perceive what others often miss.
My son is different. But he’s good different. And he doesn’t give a glazed donut what others think about it.
Here’s something I wish I had the guts to say to those women: I’m the lucky one. I have been given eyes to see the beauty in different.
***
At our kitchen table, I load a clean sheet of paper behind the roller-thingy on the old Smith Corona.
Twisting the knob to bring the paper into position, I’m rewarded with the most delightful soft click-click-click, flooding me with memories.
How many times did little-girl Lucy sit under Nana’s tutelage before this very machine?
I reset the hinged bar dealio to hold the paper in place, then blow out a long exhale.
If this thing still works, I should probably locate a YouTube video that teaches me the actual names of all these parts.
Chase beelines to my side. “Does it work?”
I laugh and squeeze him in a side-hug. “Shall we find out? Wait, did you finish your homework?”
Chase’s shoulders slump. “On Wednesdays I do my homework after dinner.”
“I know. I’m only kidding. Okay, ready? Here we go.”
I slither my fingertips back and forth across the round keys that are silky with wear, then bring them to rest in starting position.
“Oh, by the way, honey,” I say, “if you want to type a capital letter, you have to hit this Shift key.”
“I know. It’s just like a keyboard.”
“Well, kind of.”
“Is it plugged in?”
“Nope. No power needed.”
Chase cocks his head. “Wait. Really? No battery?”
“No battery.”
“Rad! Come on, then, Mom, let’s go. I want to try next. Can I?”
A ripple of laughter passes through me. I draw a great big breath and then type my answer.
Slap. Slap. Slap. Three keys hit the paper.
Y-E-S.
And suddenly I can’t be stopped—laughing or typing! Again and again I type the same three letters—Y-E-S Y-E-S Y-E-S Y-E-S Y-E-S—until . . . ding! A tiny fairy bell sounds.
And it just might be the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.
Weirdly, what follows is a churning in my belly—a hot, bubbling mixture that feels a lot like sadness or longing. And I realize this sensation has been circulating like magma somewhere deep below the surface for days. Maybe since Mom left.
I miss Nana. I miss family.
“Mom? Can I try now?”
I manufacture a smile for Chase. “Of course. Here, take my seat.” The moment I rise from the chair, my phone vibrates on the end table across the room, where I left it charging.
It’s my mother.