Tapestry of Fortunes A Novel - By Elizabeth Berg Page 0,82
you to worry. I’m going to talk to you about it, okay? But I think it would be best if we waited until after school.”
“Are you … going somewhere, Mom?”
I don’t answer right away. I don’t know. Am I?
Worried now, “How come you’re all dressed already? Are you going to the doctor or something?” Someone in Travis’s grade had lost his mother recently. The knowledge festered among the kids, spooked them terribly despite the carefully planned programs presented by the guidance counselors.
There, I am suddenly grounded. It is such sweet, wavelike relief. “Oh, sweetie, no, it’s nothing like that. It’s nothing like that! I’m sorry, I know I’m acting … I’m just tired. But we’ll talk later. It’ll be fine.” I smile brightly. “So! Did you like eating breakfast this way?”
“What way?”
“Well … You know, out here in the dining room. Fancy dishes …”
“Yeah, I guess so. Yeah! It was nice. Thanks, Mom.”
Oh, what am I doing? Why am I making him take care of me?
Travis picks up his book bag, then shifts his shoulders, seeming to adjust himsel finside himself, a gesture I love.
“Can I kiss you good-bye?” I ask.
Our old joke. Every morning I ask him this, and every morning (since he turned nine, anyway) he makes a face as though I were asking him if I could spoon cold oatmeal into his ear. But now he nods yes and my stomach does an unpleasant little somersault. I put my lips to his cheek. And he kisses me back—pecks at my cheek and then quickly turns away.
So. He knows. They are absolutely right, kids always know. When he comes home from school today and I tell him that David has moved out, he will nod sadly and say, “I thought so.” And then he will start making Fs.
I watch him walk down the sidewalk toward school. His jacket collar is half up, half down. His jeans are slightly too long; they bunch up over the top of his sneakers. His book bag carries papers with his earnest script, his own thoughts about the material he is assigned to read. He is just beginning to become himself. He is too young to have to face what he is going to have to face, it will shape him too much, quash his tender optimism. It’s unfair, it’s so unfair! That’s what I should have told David: do what you have to do, but don’t walk out on Travis. For God’s sake. Ruin my world if you have to, but don’t ruin his, too.
Back in the kitchen, I take a sip from my coffee. It’s gone cold; a ring of congealed cream visible at the outside edge. Look how fast things turn. I dump the coffee out, then throw the cup in the trash. I never want to see that cup again. “David,” I say, very softly. Like a prayer. “David,” I say again, and lean against the wall to cry. It helps. It’s so funny, how it helps. Stress hormones get released when you cry, that’s why it works. It’s amazing how smart the body is. Though maybe we could do without loving. I think it’s overrated, and I think it’s too hard. You should only love your children; that is necessary, because otherwise you might kill them. But to love a man? It’s overrated, and it’s too hard and I will never, ever do it again.
Well. What I will do now is make a list. There’s a lot to think about, so much to do. I’ll go outside, I’ll sit out there where it’s so much bigger, where there is no roof to fall in on your head and make you brain damaged, should you survive.
At three-thirty, I am sitting on the sofa in the family room, waiting for Travis. I’ve had a nap, I’m fine. Well, I’ve had a couple of naps. The waking-up part, that’s hard. What’s …? Oh. Oh, yes.
One thing I want to be sure of is that Travis does not blame himself in any way. I believe I should start with that. Out loud, I practice, “Travis, sweetie, I need to tell you some things that will be hard for you to hear.” Yes. Good. “But what I want you to understand, and to remember the whole time I’m talking, is this: all of this is about your father and me. This decision. It has nothing to do with you. You are such a good boy.” Yes.