Chapter 37
The day is wall-to-wall, but even as Rebecca rushes around, the threat of Mr. Man’s reemergence lingers at the base of her brain, an itch she can’t scratch.
She feeds Maddy at home quickly, microwave burritos from TJ’s, and shoves a few carrots at not-Bao-Bao.
When at last they arrive at student showcase night, it takes Rebecca several trips to unload the hummus platters from car to classroom.
Though it is still the backend of twilight, the sky has gone midnight dark beneath the blanket of clouds, and the air feels electric, portentous.
Some of the other parents are standing around gossiping, and resentment nips at Rebecca’s heels as she rushes back and forth to the parking lot.
An oft-cited quotation from her overbearing mother sails into her head: Resentment is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die.
Someone important said it, Saint Augustine or Nelson Mandela.
Delivered through her mother, a woman who allows zero oxygen for communication disruptive to her worldview, the words always coasted to Rebecca’s ears on fumes of hypocrisy.
And yet, fumbling to maintain her grip on the third tray, she reclaims them now. Why the hell is she so useless at speaking up for herself? Is she really content to play victim for the rest of her life?
As she buzzes around the classroom, pulling saran wrap off the hummus, she overhears Girl Dylan’s mother sniping that the platters look premade.
Rebecca clears her throat, musters ancient courage, says, “Actually I put them together myself today. From scratch.”
Girl Dylan’s mother colors, her face tensing. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply . . .” She catches herself because, of course, she did mean to imply. Then something magical happens. She rests a hand on Rebecca’s forearm. “Thank you,” she says. “I always notice how much you do.”
Rebecca smiles back and turns away quickly, not wanting anyone to see her welling up. She is such a crybaby. And yet a burst of adrenaline hums through her, accompanied with a kind of long-forgotten optimism that feels like a return to herself.
Maddy rushes up to take her by the hand. “Mommy, I haveta show you my work!” She propels Rebecca over to a classroom wall covered with drawings and craft projects. Giant construction paper letters declaim: These Are a Few of My Favorite Things!
Rebecca scans the stapled offerings, searching out Maddy’s distinctive signature among the panoply of offerings.
Next to an oft-practiced sketch of a stegosaurus, there’s a crayon drawing of Maddy and Rebecca in front of a mirror. One of my favorate things is when Mommy brushs my hair!
She finds another: I love it when Daddy drivs me to school and dos his funny voice!
Warmth spills through her. Seeing how her countless quotidian efforts have landed, how many bits and pieces of her and Mark’s care have roosted inside their girl, sets Rebecca abuzz. It is like drifting through a dream.
Anuther favorate thing is my ni-nite routine with Mommy when we give the stuffties sleep-tite hugs!
One of my favorate things is brekfast when its just me and my parents.
I love doing my nitetime afurmations with Mommy and Daddy becuase they teach me to be my best selv.
“Her spelling’s coming along,” a voice beside her says. “Almost grade level. It’s so good she’s starting to catch up.”
Rebecca turns to see Sheila standing beside her, breathing white wine, cheeks flushed, her eyes crinkled with artificial goodwill.
Rebecca feels the scalpel thrust, starts to recoil. But then a pulse of wickedness flicks up to the surface. “Sheila,” she replies, “how nice you could make it.”
Even through expertly administered Botox, Sheila’s eyes flare slightly. She swallows visibly and steps away, loose on her feet. Rebecca wonders how many glasses of wine she has consumed since brunch.
Then she sees Maddy beelining for her from the brownie platter, chocolate smears around her mouth.
Crouching, she catches Maddy in a hug, lets her brownie-grubby hands and face bury themselves in her sensible sweater.
She loves it, loves the mess, loves having her daughter tangle herself up in her and for once not giving a shit what anyone else might think of anything.
“I’m so proud of you, Maddysaurus,” Rebecca breathes into her ear.
“You like my pictures?”
“Love them. Wanna know what my favorite thing is?”
Maddy smiles big, points at the dead center of her own chest.
“That’s right.”
Maddy’s tiny fingers find her pendant and then Rebecca’s, and Rebecca helps her piece them together to form a whole heart. That is how she is starting to feel for the first time in a long time. Whole.
When she rises again, she notices that Sheila has left.